


Mending You, Repairing Me

by Delirious21



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Depression, Fingering, Fluff, Healing???, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Masturbation, Night Terrors, Oral, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Sexual Abuse, Plating Growth, Psychosis, Psychotherapy, Public Sex, Rare Pairings, Spark Sexual Interfacing (Transformers), Sparkbonding, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Stuffing, Tactile Sexual Interfacing, human terminology, more TBA - Freeform, valve play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2020-01-29
Packaged: 2020-09-28 05:03:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 37
Words: 41,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20420363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delirious21/pseuds/Delirious21
Summary: Everyone thought Fortress Maximus was dead, but when he showed up on the Lost Light, things didn't go as planned. A lot could happen in three years, too much trauma to be overlooked. When Rung suggested a new kind of therapy that may have been Max's last hope, Ultra Magnus was hesitant. A part of him doubted the healing aspect of this 'touch therapy,' but he couldn't stand there and watch Max wither into nothing. No one really knew what would happen next, if the treatment would work, if Fort Max would stay in a padded room for the rest of his miserable life, or if Magnus would be able to burden the work load.(Takes place after Issue 6 of the IDW comics)





	1. Chapter 1

“And you believe this could help him?” Ultra Magnus crossed his arms on top his immaculate desk. “Rung, his sanity is—”

Rung raised his servo to interject. “Fortress Maximus’ sanity is fine, what is wrong is his post traumatic stress and anxiety, the flashbacks and night terrors, the psychosis.”

Ultra Magnus scoffed. “And what do I have to do with any of that?”

“You, Magnus, are one of the largest mechs on the Lost Light, closest to Max’s size.”

“And Overlord’s?” 

Leaning forward, on the edge of his seat, Rung removed his glasses. It was unnerving, the way his optics peered into the spark, finding everything you tried so desperately to hide. “Fortress Maximus needs your help, sir. I have seen traumatized patients rehabilitated through physical contact and constant assurance, although I have never put it into practice. There is little else I know that may be able to help him.”

There was a knock at the door and Drift poked his helm in. “Sorry to interrupt, but there’s been an incident in the engine room.” The mechs’ optics darted between Rung and Magnus, who was already standing up. “If this isn’t a good tim—”

Ultra Magnus waved a dismissive servo. “No, no, now is fine.” To Rung, he grumbled, “I’ll get back to you.” He followed Drift out of his office and down the hall. 

“What was that all about?” Drift asked. 

“Nothing. Brief me on this ‘incident’ you mentioned.”

Incident, it turned out, was very loose terminology. Especially when Whirl and Cyclonus were having a training session of sorts that ended with forty-three broken pipes, one crushed liquid nitrogen tank, and energon all over the place. When Magnus and Drift arrived, Megatron and Kup were dragging a screaming, kicking Whirl away, and Ratchet was in the corner with Cyclonus, talking him down. Ultra Magnus pinched the bridge of his nose. It was going to be a long cycle. 

With as much paperwork as there was on his desk, Ultra Magnus was excited that he would be able to focus. No Rodimus, no Rung; nothing distracting him from his work. Tapping his pen on the desk, Magnus lost himself in a damage report. It wasn’t long before the communicator attached to his desk started ringing. Scratching the back of his neck, he picked up. 

“Ultra Magnus?” The words were laid out meticulously and cautiously. “I need you to come to my suite. Immediately.”

“Rung,” Magnus muttered. “I am busy.”

There was a pause on the other line, some muffled static as the communicator was moved around. 

“Ultra Magnus?”

Magnus sat straighter in his chair. “Fortress Maximus. How. . . how are you?”

“I’m. . . Rung says you want to help me.”

Damning the psychotherapist, Magnus sank back into his chair. It creaked with the extra strain. “Tell Rung I will be over in a few clicks.” 

How was he supposed to help a tortured, broken soul like Fortress Maximus when he knew nothing of healing? Hiding was his speciality, such as masking his distress over Rung’s tactics when he was sat across from Max. 

The suite felt cramped, although there was more than enough space for all three mechs to move freely. Magnus shot a glare in Rung’s direction, but he was duly ignored. On the couch, Fortress Maximus was all but crumbled into himself; it was shocking, how small the once intimidating mech seemed. Ultra Magnus sighed, knowing too well what war could do to some mechs, but seeing it right in front of him always knotted his tanks. Would he end up like that, one day? Cowering on a psychotherapist’s couch, waiting for the inevitable, being tossed into the brig because he endangered others. Pathetic wasn’t the right word.

Rung cleared his throat and Magnus adjusted his attention. “Ultra Magnus, I would like to start our first session here.”

Leaning forward, tension riveting his torso, Magnus frowned. “Right now? It’s late, don’t you think?” His internal chronometer flashed reassurance, reminding him to recharge. He ignored the warning. 

“Yes, right now.” Rung turned to Fortress Maximus. “Max, can you look up, please?”

It was painful to watch, to lock optics with those fading reds, but Magnus couldn’t look away. So much desperation, so much pain for one mech to carry. 

“I’m sure you remember Ultra Magnus, Max.”

The withering mech nodded. 

Rung forced a smile. “Good. How do you feel about him sitting in on our next few sessions, so that he can start to better understand you? I believe that would be the perfect transition into upcoming sessions.”

Ultra Magnus didn’t have time for that, but he bit his glossa, refusing to drop that on Maximus. After everything. . . he could make more than enough time to help his old allie. ‘Til all are one, after all. 

Max sighed, more like a wheeze, and nodded. “Anything to fix my head,” he mumbled. 

Rung crossed his legs. “I told you, Max, that the contact treatment may not change anything, so please, don—”

“I know,” Fortress Maximus snapped. 

Ultra Magnus squinted at the blue mech. “And what if it doesn’t work?” he asked.

“Now, now,” Rung interrupted. “No need to think ahead. I have hope, and as long as you both apply yourselves to this method, the outcome looks positive.”

“Right.” 

“Shall we continue, then?”

“Of course.”

Ultra Magnus tossed in his sleep all night, plagued by Fortress Maximus’ words. The descriptions he muttered, the way his optics glazed over, how he cringed and twitched, as if he were still strapped to that table. 

“The energon, it comes out warm and sticky, but it dries into the seams of your armor. . .”

“. . . just wanted it to stop. . .”

“Three years, ten months, two days. . .”

It was impossible to imagine the torture, the sheer agony, that Max endured those three years. Yet Magnus’ processor pieced together scenes from the war, from rescue missions, and threw the gore and the stench at him in his sleep. Mechs and femmes he cared about, strewn across the ground, coughing up their sparks, so much energon and rust. 

Magnus stayed awake the next time the nightmares came. There were six hours left till his shift started, but he headed to his office to get some paperwork done and clear his head. He didn’t know what else to do to distract himself. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The timeline here is a little wacky compared to the comics. Biggest difference is that Megatron is already on the Lost Light. I love him too much to leave him out of this! No regerts!

“Ultra Magnus, no surprise that you’re in early.” Megatron had just come in, balancing a rather impressive stack of datapads. He pushed the door open with his pede and set them down on the corner of Magnus’ desk.

Magnus glanced down at the records he’d been mulling over. “More work?” he asked, trying to distract himself. He folded his servos carefully atop the service record. 

Megatron eased into one of the two chairs facing the desk. “I found them in the hall, right outside. Haven’t turned them on yet.”

Wondering, briefly, if the ex-warlord was up to something, Ultra Magnus grimaced. He picked up the first sleeping electronic. “May I?” he asked. 

“By all means.” Megatron grabbed the second datapad. The tower teetered more than either of them were comfortable with. There must have been ten or more pads. 

Datapad finally powering on, the screen popped up blue, a message flashing before Magnus had a chance to click on anything. He sat the pad flat on his desk, ignoring the records beneath him as he leaned forward and tapped the screen. That caught Megatron’s attention, and the two stared down at the words, not quite frozen, but certainly not relaxed. The second and third datapad were turned on and laid out, in order, on the desk. 

“What is this,” Megatron leered. Of course he thought the messages were directed towards him. 

Ultra Magnus read them again.  _ Shouldn’t be here. Dangerous. A threat.  _ Although they had dealt with this sort of thing regarding Megatron before, those ploys were never so intricate. Graffiti, broken tools, late night comms with no number but plenty of slag to say, the typical mech didn’t bother to hide themselves or what they were doing. What could Megatron do, after all, on an Autobot ship. They were foolish; Megatron was the only thing holding himself back from ripping half of them new ports. On his worst days, even Ultra Magnus tread carefully. But this was different; who would go to such lengths just to spew hate when they did that in the halls anyway? 

Magnus shook his helm, more to himself than to the mech sitting across from him. “Turn on the rest of them,” he said. “In order.”

“You need to see more of this slag?” Megatron snapped. 

“We must be aware if there is a viable threat or not.”

The messages started to repeat themselves, like a stutter, or a thought you just can’t scrape from your mind.  _ Kill him. Kill him. Kill him. Kill him. Kill him. Kill him. Kill him. Kill him. Kill him.  _ Until the last one. _ Please.  _

“Please,” Megatron scoffed. “What kind of slag eati—”

“Enough,” Ultra Magnus rumbled. His optics were glued to the first datapad. The message disappeared and was replaced by a video feed. Time stamp, odd corner angle, all pointed towards surveillance footage from two weeks ago. The camera zoomed in on Fortress Maximus, entering Swerve’s bar. The place was busy, practically stuffed with drunk Bots, and when Max started shooting, it was chaos. In order, the remaining datapads’ messages were replaced with cctv from the Lost Light. Fortress Maximus was the star of each clip. 

Megatron leaned back, shuttering his optics. Ultra Magnus, on the contrary, focused solely on the videos. The gun shots, the shouts and screams, Rungs terrified babbling, Whirl’s taunting. Nine of the datapads recounted the damage that was done during Max’s psychotic break, even panning over the incapacitated mechs he’d targeted. But the last one, the  _ Please  _ one, was a collection of clips from therapy sessions, more dialogue than visual. 

“I’m  _ dangerous _ , I know that.”

“. . . makes me want to kill.”

“I don’t. . .”

“. . . have control. . .”

“Megatron.” Ultra Magnus dragged a servo down his faceplates, tanks uneasy. “Please alert Rodimus that we have a situation.” 

After Rodimus stopped groaning about the time, he started pacing, digits tapping his chin. Drift was there, too, perched on the edge of Magnus’ desk. Megatron was still in his seat from earlier, even though everyone expected him to bail when the room started getting crowded. 

Ultra Magnus scribbled notes onto a spare datapad, so he’d have some references when he filled out the coming case file. He paused before starting another sentence, frowning when he was done.  _ What did I think would happen: A mech would break, nearly kill six Autobots, and then all be forgiven? Where is the healing aspect in threatening a weak, broken mech?  _ He deleted the line before someone noticed. 

“So,” Rodimus started. “We should start from the beginning. I need a list of the ‘Bots on this ship that might have something against Max. There are our obvious suspects; Boss, Turbine, Doubletap, Dogfight. Whirl. Rung.”

Drift added, “Anyone that may have been close to those six. We can rule out Rung and Whirl. Whirl’s too chaotic to go through all this time and effort. If he wanted Fortress Maximus gone, he would’ve tried something by now.”

Methodically, Ultra Magnus tapped his digits on his desk. “This is difficult,” he muttered, talking to himself. 

“Why?” Rodimus grumbled. Exhaustion dulled his optics, the beginning of shadows pulling at his sallow features. Magnus hadn’t realized the co-captain wasn’t doing so well. “I’d say, with 99% certainty, that our guy is one of the four that almost died.”

Chiming in for the first time, Megatron said, “And how, exactly, would they pull that off? Blaster is the only mech, other than those present, who has the security clearance to access the ship’s recorded surveillance footage.”

“Let alone download or copy sections,” Drift said. “What about Rewind?”

Ultra Magnus shook his helm. “Although he was present and recording, this footage comes from security cameras. I confirmed that earlier.” He thought for a second. “When I spoke with Blaster, in person, he said that the only time the security system would be unguarded was when the shifts were switching out or when he and the other operators took a break.”

“What about the messages?” Rodimus slammed his servos down on the desk and glared at the datapads. “You told me that most of them demand Max’s death—”

Magnus nodded. “Except the first two and final one, yes.”

“Right. So why the deviation with those three?”

Megatron reached over to grab the first pad. “The message on this screen said ‘Shouldn’t be here,’ not  _ he  _ shouldn’t be here. It could be  _ I _ , even.” His digits tightened around the tech before loosening, flexing across the back. Ultra Magnus wondered if the tension in him had anything to do with Overlord, the persistent hum in the back of all of their minds. 

“So what are you saying, Max did this?” Rodimus guffawed. “When he’s not locked in the brig, he’s with Rung. How could he possibly—”

“That’s not my point,” Megatron snapped. “My point is, this was too ambiguous. Anyone could be our culprit.”

The Prime rolled his optics. “Yeah, that’s some real helpful input.” He straightened and stretched. To Magnus, he said, “Start interviewing the four from Max’s spree. I’ll talk to Blaster some more and, depending on what we dig up, I might have to pay Rung a visit.” He paused. “I want this dealt with as quickly and quietly as possible.” Drift trailed Rodimus out of the office, the door shutting behind them.

Megatron, for the first time since the younger mechs entered the room, sagged into his chair. “Swept under the rug,” he rumbled. “Something is wrong with Rodimus.”

Ultra Magnus hummed his distaste for the situation as he carefully boxed the datapads and set them at the foot of his desk. “Something is always wrong.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whipped this bad boy up to give some extra lovin' to my big bebies. Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am currently re-reading MTMTE and realized that I swapped Boss and Trailbreaker's roles in this chapter. I will go back later to fix this, but for now I apologize for the mistake.

Boss was back in Swerve’s underground, illegally operating bar when Ultra Magnus found him. He was tossing back drinks with Skids, visor already flashing with extra charge from the engex. The bar was fairly quiet since most mechs were on duty, but you could hear a pin drop once Magnus entered. Behind the bar, Swerve was wiping down glasses. He shot a half smirk Magnus’ way, obviously pleased with Rodimus’ leniency regarding the unlicensed activities.

The chatterbot even had the audacity to wave Magnus over. “Hey Mags, thi—”

“Ultra Magnus.”

“Uh, yeah. Ultra Magnus.” Swerve traded his clean glass for a dirty one and kept wiping away the grime. “This about the bar again? ‘Cause Rodimus said I was in the clear. Can I get you anything? You look a bit tense.”

Ultra Magnus shook his helm.

Swerve ignored him and started mixing up a drink. “I lied, you look a lot tense. More than usual. Let me get you a drink. Spritzer?” He slid the finished drink across the bar, grinning when Magnus caught it.

“I am on duty, Swerve.” He pushed the drink back and made to walk away. Shrugging, Swerve downed the drink and went back to his cleaning. 

Boss, glancing up from his drink, scowled at something Skids said, but when Magnus reached their table, he forced a smile and lifted his mug. “Hey, Magnus! Didn’t think I’d see you here again.”

Skids chuckled. “And not arresting Swerve.”

Ultra Magnus took the seat across from them. “I am here about Fortress Maximus.”

Boss’ mood flopped immediately. “Ah, yeah, the slag eater who shot me in the head. How could I forget?” He tossed back the last of his engenx. “What d’yuh want to know?”

“Before Maximus entered the bar, what were you doing?” He made sure he was recording the conversation before continuing. “Speak clearly, please. For recording purposes.”

Skids slipped away for refills. Boss’ lips pursed, watching him leave. “I was drinking with my buddies. Talking about whatever, you know.”

Ultra Magnus folded his servos on the table as he made a mental note of Boss’ sudden fidgetiness. “And when did you notice that Fortress Maximus was there?”

“Uh, Chromedome pointed him out.” He scratched his shoulder, pede tapping the ground.

“And then?”

Boss scoffed. “And then he fucking shot me!” He leaned to the side to look around Magnus and shout, “Skids, what’s taking so damn long?”

“Boss,” Ultra Magnus said, struggling to keep his voice neutral. “And why do you think Maximus targeted you?”

Skids sidled over with fresh drinks, not bothering to offer one to Magnus. He glanced at his pal, frowning when he covered his mouth with his cup. “Boss, this is serious,” he said. The mech still didn’t speak. “If you’re going to be a little shit, own up to it,” Skids snapped. 

Boss looked up from his glass, all but snarling. “Yeah, I was trash talking ‘im, but when does that justify shooting someone in the face? I know he used to be a good soldier, commander, whatever, but he’s lost it, worse than Whirl.” He didn’t meet Ultra Magnus’ optics. “Max’s crazy.”

Pushing away from the table, Magnus shut off his recorder. “Is that your final statement?” When Boss nodded, he turned and marched towards the door. He knew Fortress Maximus, lead together and fought side by side in the early stages of the war. Even when they went separate paths, Magnus never doubted his loyalties, and the mech continued to amaze. He was an outstanding Autobot, always taking on other’s troubles and solving their problems. Max was a legend, and yet his comrades labeled him incapacitated and crazy, a broken mech. 

As Ultra Magnus passed the bar, Swerve caught his attention. Reluctant, he made his way over. 

The minibot leaned on the bar, visor intense. “I know I wasn’t here when Max lost it, but do you want my statement?” He ignored Magnus’ no. “Bots in here, they talk. Give them a drop of something old, and most of them start babbling. I’m always here, so I hear what they got to say. How the mechs that were shot down all looked like Overlord, all that. And after everything Max went through. . .” His visor dimmed. “Crazy isn’t the right word. I mean, big guy like him to crash like that, I can’t imagine the shit that’s playing in his head. Must be hell.”

Magnus crossed his arms. “Swerve—”

Swerve’s arms flailed, trying to buy himself more time. “What I’m saying is, no one can blame him for what happened. What’s the saying? Oh, right: You flare, you flicker, you fade.”

Although Rung was last on Ultra Magnus’ list of interviewees, he decided to visit Ratchet first. His last few interviews yielded pointless; the other mechs who’d been shot were minding their own business when Max attacked. They were confused and angry, but boasted that they understood, to an extent. 

“Been around long enough to know what war does to a Bot,” Doubletap had said.

Dogfight claimed, “I’ve heard rumors about the slag Max went through. Three years of torture. . . No wonder he snapped.”

“Wrong place, wrong color scheme,” Turbine muttered. “Poor guy.”

It was a decent change of pace, not hearing ‘crazy’ and ‘slag eater’; these mechs, more than anything, seemed concerned. The adjusted attitude smoothed Magnus’ plating after his encounter with Boss. 

In the medibay, Ratchet and Red Alert were busy taking stock of their supplies. Without looking up, Ratchet called, “Is it an emergency?”

Ultra Magnus headed towards the voice. “No. I am here simply to talk.”

The medic was squinting at the smudged label on a storage shelf. He waved Magnus over. “Any idea what this says?” 

No matter how much he squinted, Magnus could only make out  _ hyd o liz  _ . Shaking his helm, he straightened.

Ratchet hummed, collecting metal containers from a lower shelf. “What’s on your mind?” 

Following the medic back to the front of the medibay, he thought for a moment about how he wanted to word his statement. “A situation has been brought to my attention, and I would like to ask you some questions that may or may not clarify what I am dealing with.”

Ratchet snorted. “Situation, huh? Should I start prepping for a busy night?”

“No, I don’t believe so. In fact, I am curious about your last ‘busy night,’ as you put it.”

“You mean after Fortress Maximus’ relapse?” He glanced up from a pile of dirty clamps and charge dampeners in time to catch Magnus’ nod. “Well, all four patients shared Overlord’s color scheme and were in critical condition. . .”

Ultra Magnus waited for him to finish his sentence, but he hummed instead. “Was there something else, Ratchet?”

“I doubt it will help you, Magnus, but the way Max shot Turbine and the others. . .” He paused, gathering his thoughts. “It was sporadic. Frenzied. We both know how great a shot he is, but even up close, his hits varied. Helm, chassis, side; if he was thinking about his attacks, every one of those mechs would be dead and you know it.”

“Rung labeled it an episode of severely aggressive delusional psychosis,” Magnus added. 

“Yes, but I don’t think, from the wound patterns, that Maximus was shooting on the offensive. In his mind, he was acting defensively, trying to keep the mechs he thought were Overlord away from him. He was trying to keep  _ them  _ from hurting  _ him _ .” Ratchet sighed and rubbed his wrist. “Our species boasts adaptability, but sometimes I wonder if we aren’t just as fragile as organics.” 

_ As fragile as organics. _

The thought haunted Magnus all the way from the medibay to Rung’s office. He called ahead earlier to set up an interview, so the psychotherapist promptly answered the door. 

“Please, take a seat,” the tiny mech said, settling into his usual chair. 

Ultra Magnus was acutely aware that he was sitting in the same spot Max had been the previous cycle, and the thought wrought his frame with tension. 

“So,” Rung started. “Rodimus has alerted me to the situation, and I will help however I can.”

“Good. I just spoke with Ratchet. Has he told you his theory about Maximus?”

Rung nodded. “Yes, and I couldn’t agree more. More than anything, Fortress Maximus was terrified when he relapsed, and he masked it with excessive violence.”

“And, this threat. . .” Magnus frowned. “What do you make of it?”

“In the past, I’ve had patients who received such threats, worse threats, and often times the suspect reveals his or herself. They get desperate, antsy, and try to wiggle their way closer to the target, but no one is doing that with Maximus. No one can, since he is locked in the brig under 24/7 surveillance.” There was a clear note of distaste to Rung’s voice. 

Ultra Magnus stood. “I understand. Thank you for y—”

“Actually,” Rung interrupted. “I was hoping we could discuss Max’s condition more in depth.”

He didn’t sit back down right away. “Rung, you do not have to persuade me to help him.”

“So you will?”

“For now. You, after all, are the professional, and if this ‘contact treatment’ may help ease his mind. . .”


	4. Chapter 4

Sitting in on Fortress Maximus’ therapy sessions with Rung didn’t get any easier. Often times, Ultra Magnus would sit silently, optics intent on Rung’s pedes in an attempt to avoid confrontation. The last time Max felt threatened, he went on a shooting spree, and he didn’t want to deal with a mess like that again. After the first two sessions, Rung encouraged Magnus to sit on the same couch as Max, and the poor mech froze. He still talked, discussing mostly his good days, as Rung carefully tread around the psychosis and smoldering fear. 

There was still no break with the threatening datapads, but it was no use marching around accusing Bots and putting everyone on edge, so Rodimus let it slip. For now. Magnus tapped his digits on his knee, drawing himself back to the session. They’d only just begun, and Rung was explaining therapeutic touch therapy. 

“Although this therapy is considered unorthodox by some, many, practitioners, I believe the positive energy influence may help you, Max.” He smiled, a grim little line. “In order to receive the best results, this will include physical touch, as well as the touching of your energy fields. If you are uncomfortable with any part of that, we will stop. The concept is for the volunteer, that’d be you, Ultra Magnus, to use your field to comfort Max, whether he is distressed at the moment or not.”

Next to Magnus, Max shifted. “Sounds like a load of slag,” he muttered. 

Rung sighed, but Ultra Magnus spoke first. “Do you not trust me, old friend?” After so many years apart, lack of contact, a tumultuous war, it felt good to have Max back. Somewhere, deep down in his spark, Magnus felt the stir of hope.

Max stared at his servos. “I don’t trust anyone. I can’t.”

His spark sank, but he composed himself and glanced at Rung, slowly extending his EM field to brush against Max’s. The poor mech’s field was coiled tight around his frame, and lurched away from Magnus’ advance. Rung stayed quiet as Magnus tried again, optics intent on Max. That time, Max didn’t jump as much, but his fists were clenching and unclenching between his legs, and Magnus took that as his queue to stop. 

“Fortress Maximus,” Rung started, words slow and meticulous. “We understand if it takes time for you to open up to this method, but. . .”

Max shivered, suppressing something violent. “But what?”

“This may be your last hope, other than institutionalization. I would hate to see that happen, Maximus. Please, let us help you.”

Ultra Magnus wasn’t expecting a servo to graze his, but he refused to move away. Max didn’t even try to force a smile, just stared into his optics with as little life and fight as possible. 

“Okay,” he said. “But we go slow.”

Rung nodded vigorously. “Of course. During your special sessions with Ultra Magnus, you are in complete control.”

Magnus nodded his consent when Max looked to him. 

“That, for now, is a good place to stop. Max, I’ll call your escorts up since we ended a little early. Ultra Magnus, thank you for coming. We will see you tomorrow, correct?”

Already halfway out the door, Magnus nodded. Hoping for a distraction from the turmoil budding in his chassis, he marched to his office. As it turned out, there was nothing to do with the rest of his day. Well, nothing scheduled. Situating himself behind his desk, Ultra Magnus went to work editing Rodimus’ atrocious field reports. There were more semicolons than periods, and tackling that was only one on a long list of corrections. It would keep him busy for long enough. Long enough for what, he didn’t know, but he also didn’t want to think about it.

“How does that feel, Max?” Maybe it was the wrong question, because the mech’s red optics dulled a shade more. 

Ultra Magnus ran his digits over Fortress Maximus’ open palm, carefully watching the mech just like Rung instructed him. For now, he refrained from using his EM field, as it always left Max’s plating flared and rattling in the worst possible way. From across the room, Rung jotted something down on his datapad. The larger mechs in the room were both acutely aware of the psychotherapist’s presence, and it made their movements stiff and awkward, their dialogue all the worse. 

Finally, Max nodded. His optics darted everywhere except for Magnus, and there was a slight tremble to his servos. Magnus had started touching only the tips of their digits together, waiting until Max let him move to the knuckles. Always waiting for Max’s command, eventually ending up at his palm, circling closer to his wrist joints. The air was tense, at least it felt thick to him; thick with questions and doubts and insecurities. Fear. It clouded the room and swirled like a fog around Fortress Maximus and Ultra Magnus. It was only their second session, and they knew that results wouldn’t be immediate, but the question was on the roof of all their mouths: What does healthy look like?


	5. Chapter 5

Although tedious work, Ultra Magnus found himself settling into a routine with Fortress Maximus. He stared at his servos, massaging the joints of Max’s wrist, and allowed his thigh to brush his. The action could easily be brushed aside by lack of space on the already cramped sofa, but Magnus didn’t speak and Maximus didn’t flee. 

Rung’s gaze bore into them as they continued, silent. Ultra Magnus, for one, was tired of forcing words when all it did was turn the situation awkward. He glanced up at Max, whose dull red optics trailed his every move. The mech refused to look away; Ultra Magnus could do too much, inflict too much, when he wasn’t looking. 

When the servo in his hold started to tremble, Magnus ceased his ministrations and checked on Max. His optics were dimming, plating flared and emitting an excessive amount of gas. 

“We’re losing him,” Rung snapped. In the blink of an eye he was next to Max, snapping in front of his face, talking to him, but never touching him. 

Ultra Magnus watched silently and with bated breath. Instinct told him to touch, to hold, but he never knew what was the right answer when it came to Max. He wanted to help, do anything he could, but even Rung’s professionalism barely seemed to reel the traumatized mech back in. What good would a touch do for that?

After Rung dismissed Magnus early, voice clipped, he wandered the ship for hours, inspecting seams and ramps, checking that electrical wires were properly secured, that maintenance was being done routinely; the sort of thing a mech did when his processor was grasping for straws. What had he done wrong? A part of him knew that Max’s episode had only to do with the deeply ingrained trauma and nothing to do with him, yet the doubt nagged him. 

He was grateful when Rodimus called, so much so that he answered on the first ring. A distraction wouldn’t be half bad. 

Rodimus didn’t wait a second. “Magnus, where in the Pits are you? We got a problem in the brig.”

Ultra Magnus was already headed that way. “What sort of problem,” he asked. 

“The sort where Ratchet gets involved.”

Ratchet and his crew had already collected whoever or whatever they needed and were gone by the time Magnus arrived. The cells were chaos, more so than usual. Con devotees were yelling and shoving, crowding the bars to get a glimpse of the action, already murmuring gossip. Down there, it was what they lived off. 

Magnus rounded a corner towards the worst of the disturbance. Rodimus, Drift, Rung, and Red Alert stood in front of the corner cell, motioning to whoever was screaming inside. Even from a distance, the stench of spilt energon choked him. He stopped feet away from the cell, forcing stoicism upon himself as he stared. 

Fortress Maximus had backed himself into a corner, furiously waving a detached arm in front of him like a weapon. “Get back!” he demanded, voice hoarse already. “I’ll kill you all!”

Rung was desperately trying to talk some sense through the bars as Rodimus approached Magnus. 

“Decepticon in the adjacent cell claimed he never heard of Fort Max. That was his justification for teasing him.”

Ultra Magnus couldn’t help but scoff. “Tease is an awfully vague term, Rodimus.”

The captain shrugged. “Provoked. Either way, next thing anyone knew Max reached through the bars and ripped his arm clean off. Then he started doing this.” He motioned to the contained mech. “Rung can’t do anything and Ratchet won’t sedate him because of the amount of tranquilizers left over from the last time. Says, too, that we can’t put him in stasis lock because his spark’d overheat.”

“Did he have any prospective advice?” 

“Call you.” Rodimus eyed him. “Rung said the same thing. It’s a long shot, but—”

“Open the cell.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did not come up with the rhyme, found it while reading the comics or website (can't remember where, sorry).

When Rodimus refused to open the cell, Ultra Magnus did it himself, ignoring the sudden silence behind him. In front of him, before he was a full leg inside, Fortress Maximus reeled, swinging his extra arm frantically, mouth more agape than babbling. Magnus slipped into the cell and let it lock behind him as he knelt, servos extended. 

Max’s plating rattled as he lunged. Powerful, frenzied fists reigned down on Magnus’ head and shoulders, shoving him to the ground, kicking his sides. Rodimus was screaming, cursing really, Magnus’ name, but he knew his limits. He knew the beatings his frame could take, and if a few dings or an hour on Ratchet’s table meant calming down Max, Magnus would endure. Max didn’t need a threat, he was acting out of immense, spark-rolling fear. Magnus just needed to make him understand that he wasn’t a threat. That he was safe. 

Servos protecting his spark, Ultra Magnus risked a glance at his assailant. Max’s optics rolled in their sockets, his teeth were bared, but he was backing off. He’d punch, then leap back, cautiously returning for another hit. Magnus bit back a groan at the ache in his limbs as he pushed himself to a sitting position. Again, he held out his servos and watched Max with blazing blue optics. 

The poor mech didn’t know what to do. He paced in his corner, still wielding the Decepticon’s arm, shouting incoherent slurs. Suddenly, he pistoned and marched a b-line to Magnus, who didn’t flinch in the slightest. 

“Why aren’t you fighting back!” he demanded. He grabbed ahold of Magnus’ shoulder and pushed. “Fight back!”

“No.” Ultra Magnus’ voice was, to everyone’s shock but his, steady and calm, and his smile was genuine but sad. Sad for a million reasons, all for Maximus. “I will not harm you, old friend.”

Max reeled again. “Stop.” It was more of a plea than a shout or a scream. 

“Stop what, Fortress Maximus?” Magnus’ spark pound against its casing, fiery and alive, and oh how he wanted to reach out and pull Max to his chassis and let him feel it, let him take some of the life, all of it. Huddled in the corner, clutching the arm, Max looked so small, weak. It wasn’t a sickening weak, Magnus thought, it was the weak that had been strong for too long. The mech was crumbling before him, melting against the wall, murmuring something over and over. 

Magnus crawled closer, surprised when his motion didn’t elicit an immediate response. Leaning in to get a better look, he could finally make out what Max was chanting. 

“Nickle, iron, cobalt, chrome,

He’ll eat your soul,

Turn your spark to stone,

Nickle, iron, cobalt, chrome,

Run little robot, run away home”

It’d been eons since Ultra Magnus heard the eery traditional rhyme, but it chilled his spark just the same. For it to be coming from Max, of all mechs, his optics rolled back, surface nerves glitching and sending sparks bouncing against Magnus; it made his knees weak. Terrified for the first time in a long time, Magnus rolled the giant mech over as he called for Ratchet. 

Waiting felt like an eternity, Max propped up against the wall, Magnus’ servos keeping him upright, talking to him, asking him questions that were never answered. When Ratchet finally arrived, he jabbed a needle in Max’s thigh and fed his veins a thick bluish-green liquid. Max was out in a minute, jaw slack, helm tucked into his chassis, body slumping from natural exhaustion. Ratchet leaned back on his thighs, collecting the empty syringe and patching the entrance wound. 

Ultra Magnus heard the cell open again, but didn’t take his attention off of Max. He wondered how peaceful this induced stasis was, if it was hollow and black, or riddled with as many nightmares as the day. 

Ratchet’s joints creaked as he stood. “I’ve given him a denser version of the heat reduction medicine. It won’t keep him out for long, but when he comes to he’ll be groggy and need some extra attention.” He glanced at Magnus. “I imagine you will be there when he needs that?”

Magnus didn’t have to say anything outright. 

“Good,” Ratchet continued. “Once you get him settled, come by for repairs.”

He brushed the comment aside and hooked his arms around Max, carefully lifting him off the ground. The mech was heavy, virtually dead weight, so Ratchet and Rodimus stepped in to help carry him to an empty suite. Typically it was used as a storage unit, but it was only a few doors down from Magnus’ room. Without deliberating, the mechs agreed that would be best. 

Until the room could be cleaned, Max was left sprawled on Ultra Magnus’ berth. It was only natural, then, that he stand watch. 


	7. Chapter 7

At the first signs of consciousness, the reflexive twitch of furled digits, the shifting on the berth, Ultra Magnus commed Rung. Together, they sat in silence, waiting for Max to come to. Magnus, hunched forward, arms on his knees, servos folded under his chin, despised the silence. Any other day he would have greeted it with open arms, but now, his spark beat faster, mimicking Max’s ragged breath. He was mortified that Rung, of all mechs, would hear the irregularity, the instability in his frame.

Fortress Maximus’ optics finally blinked on, and he lurched forward, servos digging grooves into the lip of the berth. For a moment, Magnus worried that he would lapse into another episode, optics flicking frantically around the cramped room. But when those reds landed on him, they settled there. It was impossible to look away, and Ultra Magnus tried to find his reflection in the gaze, desperate to know what he looked like to Max, if all he saw was a darker Overlord.

Rung cleared his throat to get their attention. “Fortress Maximus,” he started. “Do you know where you are?”

Max glanced around the room again and kneaded a servo into his thigh. “Not the brig.”

“And do you know who you are with?”

“My psyc— Rung.” His optics flit hesitantly to Magnus. “And Ultra Magnus.”

“Correct.” Rung pushed his glasses up his nose. “You have been relocated to a temporary room. For now, this is where you will stay when we aren’t in session. The door will remain locked, for your safety, and meals will be brought to you. If you need anything, here is the code to my communication link.” He set a notepad and pen next to Max. “I would also like for you to start journaling, keeping record of your thoughts, your dreams, anything you want.”

Ultra Magnus fiddled with his digits, waiting for his cue to leave. Rung finished up explaining Max’s situation and made to leave. 

Max, barely a whisper, asked, “Can I talk. . . to Magnus?”

Rung glanced between the two, professionalism keeping his brow from furrowing. “Of course. If you need anything, call.” The door shut behind him. 

Magnus, still hovering awkwardly, halfway to the door, rolled his shoulders and turned, resuming his position on the workbench facing the berth. He was acutely aware of the intensity Max watched him with, and it didn’t help his nerves. 

Sagging a bit more, Max sighed. “I remember last night.”

Magnus frowned, now attentive for warning signs. 

“Not all of it, just. . . pieces.” His lips twisted into a sour expression. “Are you hurt? I, I-I—” Frustrated, Max cut himself off, digging his digits into his leg. 

Taken aback, Ultra Magnus leaned closer, instinctively outstretching a servo. “No, Maximus, you did not hurt me. You did nothing wrong.” He jolted, shocked, when Max rested a warm servo atop his. 

“When you touched me,” Max whispered, optics dimmed and angled towards their pedes. “You were so careful. . .”

“I didn’t want to scare you, or hurt you,” Magnus rushed. He was worried this would turn accusatory, processor reeling from the unsupervised affection he was experiencing. If it was even to be called affection. Yet it felt so intimate without Rung there, taking notes in the background. This wasn’t a therapeutic technique, it was all Fortress Maximus. 

Max opened his subspace and with his free servo pulled out a drawstring coin purse. He held it out, but when Magnus just stared, dropped it on the mech’s lap. 

“Have that,” he muttered, pulling his servos away, tucking them against his sides. “For helping me. 

The bag was small, only big enough to hold a handful of shanix, but that wasn’t what bothered Ultra Magnus. Did Max still not understand that he cared about him, that he actively wanted to help him? Did he think that everything Magnus did was an obeyed order?

“I don’t need your money, Maximus,” he finally said. He stood and left without another word. If it was all just business, professionalism with a few blurred lines, he would have taken the money. Would have been glad to spend it. But there was something else nagging him, something in his spark that scolded him for even thinking of taking advantage of Max in any possible way. 


	8. Chapter 8

Tense wasn’t the right word for the following sessions. Fortress Maximus seemed fairly calm, more open than before to the touching, but Magnus was all bunched nerves and fried synapses. His optics were dull as he worked, processor focused on nothing in particular. 

Throwing himself headfirst into his work, he didn’t give himself the chance to relax, to think about anything that wasn’t on his endless to-do list. He was late twice already that week, and by the fourth session, Max’s agitation surfaced. Before Magnus could even sit, Max was pacing, waving his arms maniacally.

“Nothing is changing!” he shouted, knocking into a desk and sending its contents to the floor. His optics landed on Ultra Magnus sitting with his servos crossed and gaze blank. “I need help, that’s what you said! Y-y-y-y—”

Rung stood abruptly, datapad in his lap clattering on the ground. His stare was cold and analytical, all funnelled at Magnus. “Outside, now,” he demanded. 

Magnus, startled out of his disinterest by the typically calm and collected mech, obeyed immediately. 

“Max, I promise we will be right back. For now, I need you to recite the Autobot code of conduct. Starting from the beginning.” Rung marched into the hall, an orange ball of fury, and waited for the door to lock before snapping. “For Primus’ sake, Ultra Magnus! What are you doing here if you don’t care enough about Max to keep him from combusting? That mech in there,” he pointed with a furious wave of his arm. “He needs you, damnit! If you can’t see that, or don’t care, you are a fool. It hasn’t been long, but your interactions with him have formed a bond.” Rung cleared his throat, collecting himself. “Why do you think you were the only one who could knock him out of his last episode? Or why he is confident enough to touch you on his own volition?” He slipped back through the door, shouts and sobs leaking out into the hall before it closed again. 

Magnus stared down at where the psychotherapist had been, spark aching as the words resonated. He was a fool, could never escape that. Was a fool when he thought that he could help Maximus, was a fool when he convinced himself that he didn’t really care. Of course he cared, and he feared that he cared too much for a mech in his standing. He knew, deep in his spark, that it was all an excuse to distance him from his emotions, yet they were always there. 

His body acted before he could think to stop it. In the suite, Rung knelt next to a twitching lump on the ground. Magnus steeled his nerves. He knew what anguish sounded like, but Max’s sobs were broken, jagged, sharp like they could cut you if you stood too close. He was shouting between gasps and angry tears, shouting for “it” to stop. To let him die. 

Ultra Magnus didn’t know what to do. He fought the coding that screamed for him to run, as he had his entire life. The fact that the urge to run was so prevalent now was concerning in of itself. 

“Magnus,” Rung snapped. “Come here. He is hallucinating; ground him.”

Ground him? Magnus sat on the other side of Max and tentatively rested a servo on his heaving back. The mech bleated and his screaming picked up, arms and legs suddenly twisting like some invisible force was tearing them apart. 

“Fortress Maximus.” Magnus slowly moved his servo to form circles on Max’s back. “I am Ultra Magnus.”

Max writhed and hissed in agony. “Stop! O-O-O-Overlor—”

“Ultra Magnus.” He was grasping for straws, and Rung had backed away, not offering any help or advice. “I am not hurting you, Maximus. I am rubbing your back. Do you feel that?”

“No, please—!” his voice broke into another sob as his empty tanks tried to purge themselves. He gagged onto the floor, face contorted and smeared with energon. 

Magnus continued tracing circles with one servo as he wedged the other under Max’s chassis. In one tumbling motion, he lifted Max to a sitting position and pulled him against his chassis. Magnus used his pedes to straighten out Max’s twisted legs, all the while running his servos up and down the poor mech’s flared, rattling sides. 

Max gurgled something as his helm thunked back against Magnus’ shoulder, and the sobbing gradually turned into wet coughing fits, but he was still shaking horribly. 

Ultra Magnus closed his optics, letting his servos work deftly as he repeated, “I am not harming you, Fortress Maximus.” He wasn’t sure if he was talking to reel Max in, or keep himself from crumbling. “You are safe in my arms. As I speak, your helm is tucked against my shoulder. I can feel your breathing regulating, the tension being replaced with exhaustion. . .”

Rung was squinting at him, discernible frown marking his faceplates. Magnus looked away, focusing on the warm pressure of Max’s body against his, massaging the last bits of hallucination out of his servos. The frame in his hold stirred. 

“Maximus?” Rung was back in a flash, checking his vitals. “How do you feel?”

Max groaned, helm lolling against Magnus’ shoulder. “Warm,” he rasped. “Safe.”

Rung had few words for Ultra Magnus after they situated Maximus back in his room. They were both still reeling from the shock of the session. It was a miracle that Magnus’ strategy worked and, be it the dazed exhaustion from his hallucinations, that Max didn’t fight his touch. He practically sank into it. Either way, it shone a sliver of light onto their situation. 


	9. Chapter 9

Rung called Magnus early to let him know they would start having sessions every other day. “Every day appears to be overwhelming Maximus,” he said. “I want to work on assimilating him to a normal life on the ship. Under  _ your  _ strict supervision. Although he isn’t ready to run on his own, he needs to be prepared when he is.”

Magnus tapped his digits on his desk, an old habit. “Do you think he will reach that point?”

“I believe that there is hope. For now, I want you to take him on walks through the ship. Avoid congested areas, but allow him to interact with others if he pleases.”

There was a lull in the conversation, but Magnus didn’t hang up quiet yet. “Rung?” he asked. “I want to be there for Fortress Maximus. What happened this week, it will not happen again.”

“Don’t tell me. Promise it to Max.”

Ultra Magnus stood in front of the door longer than he knew was professional before he knocked. Although Max couldn’t open the door himself, Magnus waited for a confirming mutter to let himself in. The last thing he wanted to do was walk in abruptly and catch Max off guard. 

As it was, Fortress Maximus stood to meet Magnus, servos folded strategically behind his back. His optics were sharper than usual, more alert, and Magnus gave a courteous smile. 

“How are you doing today, Maximus?” he asked. Hovering in the open doorway, he wondered how threatening his naturally domineering frame was. 

“Alive.” If that were a positive thing or not, he didn’t elaborate, and Magnus didn’t ask him to. “Rung said you’d come.”

Ultra Magnus nodded as he stepped out of the way. “He thought it would be wise to let you stretch your limbs,” he said. “Are you hungry?”

Max didn’t answer and was slow stepping out of the room. His optics darted every which way, and Magnus kept a look out for other mechs. His servos clenched around the doorframe, leaving dents in their wake, trying to support himself. Magnus offered a servo. Whether or not it would help was something else entirely, but it was an offering through and through. Max stared as he steadied himself and took an emboldened step into the hall. The door closed and locked behind him, and the hiss of it made him jump, but not enough that Magnus had to intervene. After all, if Max was going to have free reign on the Lost Light, he would have to readjust, like Rung said. 

Fortress Maximus took a few more steps, gaining confidence, and Ultra Magnus couldn’t ignore the warmth in his chassis. He tried to hide it, but when Max turned, face ashen, optics dull and sluggish, the comfort dissipated. 

“What’s wrong, Max?” Magnus asked, slowly approaching. 

The mech took a minute to respond, jaw and fists clenching. “The last time I was let loose. . . Is this wise?”

“Your weapons are empty, you’re under close supervision, and you are recovering, Fortress Maximus,” Magnus answered, only an inkling of doubt in his spark. “Remember that you are in complete control here.”

Max squinted, optics sharpening. “This is a session?”

“Of course.” Ultra Magnus headed down the hall, acutely aware of Max keeping his pace. Walking so close, but never close enough to touch. 

The halls were fairly desolate, since they remained mostly in the underbelly of the ship, touring the engines, the oil reserve. Although silence covered the two, Magnus felt content, carefully watching over Max, wandering aimlessly. It was difficult not to take notes of repairs and cleaning that needed to be done, but in the end his attention landed on Max. Autobots, Decepticons, the entire war, all the suffering, the loss, the grief, a crumbling no one could describe; Fortress Maximus’ optics held all of it. Fortress Maximus, renowned prison guard, fiercely loyal warrior, was shattered. Shattering. And yet there he was, keeping himself together enough to walk around the ship, his giant prison cell. 

Ultra Magnus hadn’t realized he stopped moving until Max was turning, looking back over his shoulder. His optics flickered and dimmed, but he didn’t move. Magnus forced a grim smile and caught up, leading the way back to the main floor as if nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t lost himself in a revolting sense of hatred for the war, for Overlord, for anything that could turn a mech like Fort Max into. . . this. 

Neither mech spoke until they were back in Max’s impromptu room, door closed and hesitant tension filling the air. Magnus was exhausted: He couldn’t keep his mind from wandering, always returning to a deep seeded ache in his spark. Although he couldn’t name it, he knew the feeling well. Sighing, he let his helm fall back against the wall where he stood. 

“Ultra Magnus?”

Magnus hummed.

“You remember Maccadam’s?” Max shifted, joints creaking. “On Cybertron, the old bar?” 

“Of course.” It was, by far, the best bar on the planet. Clean, organized, friendly service, strong engex. Magnus swore he could smell the sweet cigar smoke and hear the quiet clinking of glasses. 

Max chuckled, a low, grating sound. A familiar sound. “I could go for some highgrade about now.” His shoulders sagged, voice dropping to a mutter. “Something for the nerves.”

Technically, Max was still a prisoner, and Magnus couldn’t condone supplying a prisoner with alcohol, but damn did he want to. Wanted to get Max the finest energon on the ship if it meant helping him. He shifted on his pedes, crossing his arms and uncrossing them. Rung had told him it was negative body language. 

“Tell you what,” Magnus started, the idea gradually coming to him, “when you’re removed from the brig’s list, I will personally make sure you get that drink.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The three scenes below occurred on separate days. Just wanted to clarify that. :)

“Do you think I am weak, Ultra Magnus?”

They were standing before the oil reserve, staring at the shiny glisten of the surface, rippling ever so slightly. Magnus glanced at Max, aware that he was taking too long to answer. 

“I am, I know,” Max supplied. “Slag, you hear me when I snap. Sound like a fucking sparkling.” His servos clenched and unclenched, again and again. Back tense, rigid. He was rambling now. Ultra Magnus opened his mouth to interject, tried speaking over Max, but the mech continued. “You don’t know what I went through, none of you do. You think I’m weak, couldn’t take a bit of torture, and now I’m fragile. You see this!” He lifted a trembling servo, glared at it. 

Magnus was only faintly aware of his actions as he smacked Max’s servo out of the way and practically lunged at the mech, holding him tight as he thrashed and cursed. Max’s helm snapped to the side, colliding with Magnus’, but he stood firm, servos locked together behind Max’s back. 

“You are Fortress Maximus,” Magnus whispered, shuttering his optics. “You have never failed to be anything but powerful, a mech built on loyalty and honor.” Max’s thrashing died down enough for Magnus to loosen his grip. He could feel the rapid fluctuations of the spark pressing against him, but he kept talking. “I respect you, Maximus. After everything you have been through, you are still here. Still in my arms, still fighting with everything you have.”

It felt as though Magnus had lost control over himself, arms clinging to Max, mouth spouting emotional nonsense. And yet, his chassis was warm and a meak EM field brushed his. Max slowly lifted his arms to embrace Magnus back. The action was stiff and awkward, but he was trying. Trying so damn hard to reflect every single word Magnus gushed. 

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Rung tagged along on their next walk around the engines, and no one spoke. It was awkward, and the mech could barely keep up when Max and Magnus walked at a normal pace, so they had to slow down even more. It wasn’t that Rung himself was a nuisance, but his presence sure as hell was annoying. 

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Fort Max didn’t want to leave the room. He stayed planted on the edge of the berth, optics downcast, leg bouncing. Magnus sat next to him, frowning at the glitch in his optics.

“What is wrong?” Ultra Magnus asked, watching carefully for more warning signs. It wasn’t a good day. 

“Nothing.”

Magnus extended his servo, a silent offering hanging in front of Max. “Let me help.”

Max shuttered his optics, refusing the servo. “How was your day?” His teeth creaked as they ground together. “Tell me. . . everything.”

Even though he knew it was to distract Max from whatever his processor was focusing on, Magnus felt honored. No one ever asked how his day was. Rodimus might, but would get bored with the answer and wander off. For Megatron, it was empty niceties. 

Magnus cleared his throat, deciding in that moment to tell Max  _ everything _ . It could be his only chance. “I woke up early,” he started. “From a dream. I don’t dream often, but this was vivid, similar to a recent memory.”

Max leaned back, shoulder brushing Magnus. “What was it about?” 

“The Crystal Gardens, do you remember them?”

“Only went once, wasn’t impressed.” He’d stopped fidgeting as much, and his optics were trained on Magnus, attentive. 

Magnus scoffed. “You must be def then.” He knew he shouldn’t behave so carelessly, but this felt like a snapshot from the past, confiding in an old friend, slouching against the wall, bantering. “The crystal’s song, it resonated in my chassis, my spark, it always made me smile. That, I believe, is what peace feels like.”

“All that from a science experiment?” With his helm tilted, optics squinting tauntingly, Magnus couldn’t help but grin. “Never took you as a hippy, Ultra Magnus. Dual Tyrest Enforcer—”

“ _ Duly appointed Enforcer  _ of the Tyrest Accord,” Magnus corrected. “And the crystals are not just rocks, as you seem to believe.”

Maximus snorted. “Hippy.”

“Do not—”

“I won’t.” Max grinned. “So, what happened in this dream of yours with the magical rocks?”


	11. Chapter 11

Although Ultra Magnus was a light sleeper, on the rare nights he actually recharged, he didn’t expect to jolt from sleep, body reacting before his processor understood what was happening. He swung his legs over the edge of the berth and marched to the door, opening it as clicking pedes and biting chuckles faded down the hall. Whoever it was disappeared around a corner before Magnus could identify them, but he was less bothered by that than the nagging feeling in his spark. Something was wrong. It was too early for mechs to be galavanting around the halls, let alone near his quarters. 

Locking the door behind him, Magnus wasted no time getting to Fortress Maximus. As much as the scratched taunts on the door infuriated him, he opted for dealing with them later. Max came first. 

The lights were off, but a flickering pair of red optics stared up from the floor. Magnus knelt as his optics adjusted to the darkness, taking in the set line of Max’s lips, the way he held his legs against his chassis, the grind of his dentae. 

“Tell me it wasn’t him. Tell me he’s dead,” Max pled. 

“He  _ is  _ dead, Maximus,” Magnus rushed. “He will never hurt you again.”

As if Max didn’t hear, he bit the inside of his cheek and whispered, “You’re right. If he wanted in, he’d get in. . . have his way. Always have his way. . .”

Magnus couldn’t take it, watching Max’s optics glaze over, helplessly observing as the mech slipped further and further away. Rubbing slow circles on Max’s legs, Magnus wondered if, one day, Max’s mind would slip out of reach and never return. If that ever happened, would he regret his decisions, would he blame himself for not being as helpful as he could?

Max, alone in his nightmares, suddenly lurched away from Magnus’ meticulous touch, legs kicking out as he scrambled to stand. A pede connected with Magnus’ jaw before he could react, and he barely threw his servos up in time to block the next kick. Max was shouting something incoherent and his swings were sporadic, frenzied, yet Magnus just took it. His spark ached more than his frame when he figured out what Max was hissing, tone horrifically similar to Overlord’s. 

“Look at you! Pathetic little Autobot, run away home. Nickle, iron, cobalt chrome. . .”

Magnus snatched one of Max’s pedes out from under him and pounced. 

“. . .eat your soul. . .”

He threw all of his weight and strength into holding Max down, pinning his arms and legs with his own, torso pressing firmly against his. 

“. . .spark to stone. . .”

As calmly as he could, Magnus interjected. “It is alright, old friend. Calm down, please.” In a half-whisper he added, “Come back to me.”

Speaking, itself, didn’t do anything noticeable to soothe Max, but the longer he was pinned down the more his chanting slowly muted and he went lax under Magnus. His helm thunked back against the floor and his optics fluttered closed. 

Magnus carefully untangled their limbs and sat back on his haunches, energon pounding in his audials. He didn’t notice when Max spread his legs wider, he was too focused on figuring out what needed to be done next. The sound of panels snicking snapped him out of his growing frustration with Max’s graffitied door. 

He looked down, startled at the array in front of him. “Fortress Maximus, what are you doing?” he managed. 

Optics still offline, Max’s plating flared, but his fans weren’t on, his spike was completely flaccid, and his valve showed no signs of desire. Magnus stood, distancing himself as much as possible. He debated calling Rung, but it was still so early, and he doubted that even the acclaimed psychotherapist would know what to do anyway. So he dialed the one mech he could almost always rely on to be awake and cognizant. 

Ratchet, as Magnus had imagined, knew exactly how to automatically engage an unresponsive mech’s codpiece. With that out of the way, Ultra Magnus was more comfortable with touching Max, lifting him onto the berth and whispering reassurance, although he was admittedly wary of Ratchet’s presence then. Having yet to return from the hallows of his mind, Max lay limp and silent, virtually dead. 

“Magnus,” Ratchet said. He leaned against the wall, optics squinting as he took in the typically guarded mech’s interaction with Max. “How invested are you?”

Ultra Magnus didn’t look away from Max. “Why do you ask?”

“You knew something was wrong. Why didn’t you call Rung and let him deal with it?

He paused. “I did not want to bother the psychotherapist at such an ungodly hour.”

Ratchet scoffed. “His entire profession is based off ungodliness, and you know damn well you’re lying to yourself.” A heavy, hard to swallow silence settled on the room, but Ratchet wasn’t done with his persecution. If you could call it that. Perhaps scolding was a more suiting word. “Do you think you know better than Rung?”

Magnus shook his helm. “Of course not.”

“But?”

“But. . .” Max stirred, groaning something under his breath, and Magnus’ attention pivoted. “Maximus? Rest, old friend. You do not need to do anything, just rest.” 

“You care more than Rung, is that what you’re trying to say?” Ratchet ignored Magnus’ pointed silence. “In a nonprofessional sense, I agree with you. Rung would have taken care of this on his own, like he has with other patients. But you called me.”

Ultra Magnus glared, but he couldn’t find a single rebuttal. So he opted for a question, even though he was worried he already knew the answer. “Ratchet, in clinical terms, why did Max react. . . like this?”

“What were you doing before he exposed himself?”

“I pinned him down.” Magnus scratched the back of his neck. “He lapsed into an aggressive episode and I needed to contain him in order to calm him.”

“Next time, don’t.” Ratchet scoffed, but his optics were gentle. As if he understood Magnus’ fiery commitment. “When Max is having an episode, his processor draws connections between flashbacks and the present, and the two overlap.”

“He sees me as Overlord,” Magnus muttered. 

“Yes. And baring himself is a conditioned response to being pinned down and restricted by Overlord.” 

Ratchet didn’t stop Ultra Magnus from punching a hole in the wall. No one could have if they tried.


	12. Chapter 12

Ultra Magnus couldn’t remember the last time he felt so consumed by nerve-glitching rage, pure fury engulfing his entire frame’s coding; from his clenched fists to his furrowed brow. He radiated so much hatred that he was practically wearing a neon ‘don’t fucking mess with me’ sign. Mechs avoided him in the halls the whole way to the security department. It terrified him, somewhere deep down, that his emotions could shred the barriers he built around them, that he would be more than willing to kill in this shrouded state of mind. 

He all but barrelled through the door to the security hub. Trailcutter was on duty and going through archived files when Magnus barged in. 

“I need footage,” he demanded. “From hall 3b, three hours ago till now.”

Trailcutter swiveled in his chair and set to work. He had the recorded feed up and was running through on fast forward until a lone Bot appeared on screen. Magnus grunted his thanks and left. 

He made it to his office, still fuming, without punching any more holes in anything or anyone, but he struggled to regulate his temperature. Heaving, folded over his desk, he called Ratchet. The Doc picked up on the first ring. 

“Where did you run off to?” he snapped. “You scared the living spark out of Fort Max!”

Magnus ran a servo down his faceplates, pede tapping incessantly. Even high on adrenaline, he felt guilty about startling Max. “I am taking care of something, Ratchet. Can you stay with him until I return?”

“Primus, kid, you sound like you’re ‘bout to overheat. What are you doing?”

There was a knock at the door and Magnus straightened. “Please stay with him.” He disconnected the line. “Come in,” he called to whoever knocked. 

Megatron hovered in the doorway, taking in Magnus’ frenzied state. “You look horrible,” he deadpanned. 

“Astute observation,” Magnus snapped. “I need Whirl in my office. Now.”

“Get him yourself.” Megatron scowled. “I am not your servant.”

Ultra Magnus’s servos clenched under the desk. “No, you are not,” he grit out. “But you are a prisoner.”

Magnus could barely contain himself, waiting for Whirl to show up. He couldn’t focus on anything, so he sat and glared at the door until it clicked and opened. 

Whirl gave a cheeky grin and closed the door behind him. “So, how’s it goin’ Blue?” he quipped, settling into a chair. 

Ultra Magnus rolled his shoulders, but couldn’t find it in himself to stop glaring daggers. “I am not in the mood for games, Whirl,” he all but growled. “Why did you vandalize Fortress Maximus’ door?”

“Oh, you mean why did I not break in and kill him instead?” Whirl shrugged. “What can I say, I’m sympa—”

Magnus slammed his fists down on his desk, pushing to stand and tower over Whirl. “You think this is a  _ game _ ? That Maximus’ safety and health is a toy for you?”

“Why not? He _did_ try to kill me.” The damned mech was barely phazed by Magnus’ outburst. 

“And what about these!” Magnus bent over and grabbed the box of datapads next to his desk. “Did you do these, too?”

Whirl squinted at the threats that popped up on the pads. “No, but kudos to whoever did.” He cocked his helm up at his superior. “You don’t look so good, Magnus.”

Megatron burst in right then, right as Ultra Magnus was debating shooting Whirl. But the co-captain shooed Whirl and, in a flash of movement, slapped cuffs on Magnus. 

Magnus froze at the unfamiliar clamp, staring in disbelief. “What do you think you’re doing?” he finally snapped. 

Megatron, silent, led him through the ship, avoiding everyone possible, until they were standing in hall 3b, in front of a door riddled with red scribbles of ‘die’ and ‘worthless’ and ‘weak’. Ratchet met them at the door, gave an approving nod to Megatron, and shoved Magnus into the room, locking the door behind him. 

The lights were still off, but Max was sitting on the berth instead of the floor, optics focusing on the cuffs on Magnus’ wrists. “What did you do,” he asked, voice barely a mutter. 

Magnus couldn’t be angry, couldn’t let it get in the way of his sensibilities when he wasn’t the one suffering. And Max was so quiet, his calmness so misguiding that the cycle of his vents was enough to pop a hole in Magnus’ fury. Mentally, he collapsed, exhaustion overriding everything else. 

He sat at the head of the berth and Max turned to face him, legs huddled against his chassis. They were close enough that the different hues of their optics mixed and sent purple bits of light dancing over the space between them. Caught in each others’ gazes, neither wanted to move, ever. Magnus could stay right there for eternity, searching Max’s soul, baring himself, EM fields brushing. 

“Ultra Magnus?” Max extended a servo, cautiously resting it on the other’s wrist. “You care too much.”

Magnus’ tanks wrenched. In that moment, he realized that he would do anything for Maximus. His touch fueled that care, fueled it until Magnus was blustering, bubbling over, swamped by emotions he didn’t have words for, and he was leaning closer, so close Max’s hot breath warmed his lips. 

Fortress Maximus’ optics flashed bright as his servo snaked around the back of Magnus’ neck and pulled him into the kiss he was too scared to initiate. It was so soft, endlessly gentle, and Magnus smiled against Max’s lips, a warmth settling in his spark as they parted. 

“Max. . .” Magnus started. He wasn’t sure what else to say. 

Max flashed a grin, a familiar, toothy gesture. The same gesture that melted sparks pre-war. “You’re a strange one, Ultra Magnus.”


	13. Chapter 13

Ultra Magnus, flustered half out of his armor, ran away faster than he wanted to. He retreated to his suite, tossing and turning in his berth all night. And yet, he didn’t feel tired in the morning. Every fiber of his being was working through shock and disorientation. He knew what passion felt like, that burning in your wires, the giddy twist of your tanks. But, after so long, the sensations seemed foreign. And, of course, he was plagued by doubts, but no matter what, he somehow managed to circle back to the fact that Max kissed  _ him _ . It was a small victory for Magnus’ conscious, but it was enough to goad him through the work day. 

Huddled in his office, with Rodimus hovering over his shoulder, it was a miracle that Ultra Magnus managed to focus on the maintenance document in front of him. Meticulously reading through the fineprint (where Brainstorm liked to hide his special requests for dangerous toxins), Magnus sighed. Usually, he was up to date on his paperwork, but the piles were stacking higher and higher. He dragged a servo down his faceplates. 

There was a knock on the door, but before he could get up, Rodimus scurried over. “Oh, hey Rung,” the captain chirped. He slipped around Magnus’ guest and disappeared into the command center.

Ultra Magnus pushed out from his desk, stepping around it to greet Rung. He shook Rung’s puny servo, making note of the pinched brow and set jaw. “Is something wrong?” he asked. He prayed to Primus the answer was no. 

Rung glanced towards the open door. “You might want to close that,” he said.

Magnus didn’t wait a second, realizations settling in the pit of his tanks. 

Assuming position in a free chair, Rung waited for Magnus to collapse behind his desk, door closed and locked. “Ultra Magnus,” he started. “Do you know why I chose you to be Fort Max’s therapy aid, for lack of better words?”

“When you originally asked, you used physical attributes to justify your decision.”

“Yes, I did.” Rung frowned for a second, correcting himself just as quickly. “I will admit now that your physical similarities to Overlord had nothing to do with it. Frankly put, I chose you because I thought you would be least inclined, of all mechs, to form a personal bond with Max. I understand now, that I was foolish in that thinking. The reason for the controversy behind the ‘contact therapy’ technique is due to the relationship and dependency that typically forms between volunteer and patient. With you, I wasn’t worried about that. Not until I observed the impact your presence had on Maximus, and how you react to his pain.” He paused as if to catch his breath.

Magnus took the opportunity to speak. His leg bounced under the desk. “And you are bringing this up now because of last night?”

Rung nodded. “I thought you were aware of the cameras.”

“I was. . .” Magnus pinched the bridge of his nose hard enough to see black spots. 

“You were distracted, too focused on Max to care about anything else.” Rung leaned forward. “This isn’t an issue of consent, Magnus. What we are dealing with here is the pursuit of a relationship, in consequence of our work, and the negative effects that would have on all parties involved.” 

“What are you saying?” His voice was hardly a mutter. 

Rung’s expression softened. “At this point, I am concerned that an intimate relationship would be detrimental to Fortress Maximus’ progress. What happens, say, if you decide you don’t want to deal with him anymore? It is a purely hypothetical question, please don’t look so stricken. If, at that point in time, Max is still reliant on you for his healing process to continue, he will backslide. Who knows how far, or if he would have the will to continue. . . Do you understand what I’m saying, Magnus?”

Ultra Magnus’ frame barely registered his nod. He was too engulfed in self-doubt, a deep-seeded insecurity about his loyalties and long term commitment. His spark wept at the thought of leaving Max, of ever doing anything to hurt him, but what his spark felt and what he acted on were two different things. 

And yet his intake opened of its own volition, and he spoke with the confidence of a proper leader, leaving no room for doubt in Rung or himself. 

“I cannot make promises, but I can swear my loyalty to Fortress Maximus. Consider this my official statement, and if I ever act outside of the bounds of loyalty, this vow will serve as a reminder of what I will  _ never  _ forsake.”


	14. Chapter 14

“I’m just saying, Magnus, I’ve seen you uptight, but this is a whole new level.” Rodimus leaned in the doorway, acting as if the distance could protect him from Magnus’ rage. 

Ultra Magnus cycled a slow breath, forcing his frame from tensing. “I am fine.” 

“Right.” Rodimus scowled. His knuckles tapped on the doorframe, impatient. “Why don’t you go to the range for your break. I’ll have someone set up the dummies.”

The shooting range? Magnus clenched his jaw without knowing. There was one thing he wanted to shoot, and it sure as hell wasn’t a dummy. Overlord, or rather the thought of him, had been eating Magnus alive for the last few cycles. When he was with Fort Max, all he could see were grey servos tearing, touching, shredding, and he wanted to scream, wanted to scrub the images out of his processor. Max knew something was wrong, and tension wrought them both on their walks. Neither spoke. Stubborn mechs, one battling terror and the other choking on rage. 

Magnus shook his helm. “I do not need a break,” he said. But Rodimus was already gone. 

Ultra Magnus told himself that he wasn’t obeying Rodimus when, after his shift, he made his way down to the shooting range. On one of the lower decks, it was hardly ever used. Most of the time, mechs got bored with the dummies or didn’t even know the ship had a range. It was soundproof, so hauntingly silent that Magnus could hear the low whir of his gears shifting when he moved, setting up the dummies, loading a blaster, lifting his arm, tilting his helm for a better angle. Pulling the trigger. 

The head of the scrap metal dummy exploded with the clatter of a thousand tiny thunderstorms, shards of plaster and metal skittering over the concrete. Magnus lowered the gun, glaring at the mess. In his processor, he heard Ratchet, his explanation of Max’s conditioned reactions. A second dummy’s bottom half shattered. 

Merciless, energon soaked servos, digits scraping Max’s armor. Taking what they wanted, demanding everything.

Two more shots. One missed. Magnus closed his optics and fired the last of the charge from the binary blaster. When it emptied, a guttural scream escaped him and he threw it against the wall, internally crumbling as the gun cracked and dropped. Magnus stared at his servos as if they could save him from the rage consuming him. Shuttering his optics, he imagined Max next to him, warm frame barely touching his, careful digits entwined. 

It was late, he told himself, scolded really, but that didn’t stop his spark’s yearning for the real thing. And so, he ended up outside Max’s room, a frustrating anxiousness settling in his tanks. When he knocked, ever so lightly, he could have sworn he heard an answering groan, but when he opened the door, the room was pitch black, and a lump was sprawled on the berth. 

Ultra Magnus froze as, to his own disdain, he let the door close behind him. The door clicked as it locked, and Max rolled over, red optics cycling on. 

“Please, no more. . .” he hissed.

Magnus was by his side in a flash, kneeling at the head of the berth and running his servos over anything he could reach. “It is okay, Max. It’s me, Ultra Magnus. You are safe, I promise,” he whispered. 

Max took a few more minutes to clear his processor and distinguish nightmare from reality. He groaned, throwing an arm over his face as he reeled from the trauma that plagued his mind at night. Magnus stayed right there, massaging the joints in his shoulder. Experimentally, he let his EM field extend, cautiously caressing the other. 

“Magnus,” Max sighed. His voice grated in the quiet and static clipped his words. “What are you doing?”

“I. . .” Ultra Magnus didn’t know. He did, but how could he voice the tumult in his spark? Did he want to? He cleared his throat. “I apologize, I should not have come.” He started to pull away, but Max grabbed his wrist and kept him in place. 

“No, I need you here. Please,” he whispered. 

Frame creaking, spark whirring madly, Magnus took a seat on the floor, leaning against the wall, his side right against the top of the berth. Fortress Maximus rolled over so they were optic to optic, and smiled. A grim little line, but a smile nonetheless. 

“Why are you here, Magnus?” 

His only response was to take Max’s servo and run his digits over the ridges of knuckles and scars. 

Max offlined his optics. “How long will you stay?”

“As long as you need me.” Magnus was more than aware of the low rumble of his voice. It seemed to soothe Max even more. 

The exhausted mech hummed. “I wonder how much  _ you  _ need  _ me _ ,” he muttered, optics flashing back to life. “Do you trust me, Magnus?”

Magnus’ brow furrowed. “Of course.”

“I do things for a reason, you know. When I’m lucid.”

“Why are you bringing this up?” Magnus asked. Even though he was concerned, his servos still worked meticulously on Max’s wrist and digits. 

Max’s optics dimmed ever so slightly. “Never mind.”


	15. Chapter 15

Ultra Magnus wasn’t sure at what point in the night he succumbed to sleep. The last thing he remembered was humming a short little tune from pre-war days until Fort Max fell asleep. And now, rubbing his optics with the palm of his servos, Magnus stirred just enough to lift his helm and check on Max. The mech’s optics were open but he laid perfectly still, cycling steady invents. It was slightly unnerving, wondering how long Max had been watching him, but Magnus managed a sympathetic smile.

“Feel better?” Max asked, optics locked with Magnus’. 

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

Max chuckled, but it didn’t reach his gaze. 

Worried he struck a nerve, Magnus fumbled, “Apologies, I di—”

“It’s fine. I know how fragile I am.” Max rolled onto his back. “Hate it, but can’t ignore it.” He paused. “A soul isn’t the sort of thing that you can just patch up and toss back onto the battlefield. You know that, don’t you?”

Magnus folded his servos in his lap, impatient with himself for not having a proper answer, and spark breaking for Max that he have to ask such a thing in the first place. It was the effect of war, he told himself, as if coming to terms with what he already knew. With what had been ingrained in his processor since the first life he took. Patching souls, sparks, minds, was inseparable from war. If they benched a mech every time he was traumatized, there would have been no one left to fight after the first decade. But how could he load all that into digestible words, not ramblings in his mind? Settling with his failure in that aspect, Magnus shook his helm. 

“Rung will be here soon,” Max muttered. 

Magnus checked his chronometer as he stood, stretching out stiff limbs. “I will return when my shift is over,” he said. “Unless. . .”

“I’ll kick your ass if you don’t come back.” Max sat up. “We’ll keep this little impromptu session between just you and me.” They both chuckled— scoffed— knowing damn well anything that happened in that room was going on a hard drive for Rung’s use. 

“Well  _ you  _ look better today,” Rodimus quipped. “Target practice help?”

Ultra Magnus ignored him and headed to his office, a brief nod to the other mechs on deck. No way in Pits was he about to tell Rodimus why he’d calmed down. Well, perhaps not calmed down, but at least his anger was simmering quietly in the back of his mind. He was barely settled behind his desk when Megatron walked in. He eased onto the arm of a chair, staring intently. 

“May I help you with something?” Magnus asked, organizing his paperwork for the day. 

“How is Fortress Maximus?”

“Improving.”

Megatron hummed. “Good. Rung spoke to me last night about his progression.” He paused. “Are you aware that he wants Fort Max officially removed from the prisoner registry?”

Tension snagged Magnus’ sides. “How soon?”

“A month.” Megatron stood, headed for the door. “If he has not spoken to you yet, I imagine he will soon. Also, I’ve assigned Tailgate to scrub Maximus’ door.”

“It is appreciated, but I will do it.” Magnus glanced at the work on his desk, mouth twisting. “In order to prevent another. . . episode.”

“Signing up for cleaning? I would think it below you.”

Bearing cleaning supplies, Ultra Magnus left the office (and overdue papers) early. He could catch up later: Max was his priority. That realization, in of itself, was startling to say the least, but Magnus found comfort in it. Drift once proclaimed that the only reason Cybertron survived the war was because of relationships. Relationships, he said, that ran deep and burrowed strong in Cybertron’s core, that could never be replaced, nor extinguished. Ultra Magnus wasn’t so sure he could brush that aside as exaggerated romanticism any longer. 

He knocked, trying to avoid making eye contact with the graffiti. When he opened the door, Fortress Maximus looked up from the bed and smiled. A genuine, optic-crinkling smile. 

“Cleaning day?” he asked, humor tinting his voice. 

Magnus nodded as he set the bucket and solvent down outside the door, tentatively stepping closer. He wasn’t sure what was moving him, but the red blaze of Max’s optics must have had something to do with it. 

Max held out a servo. “You know, I could use a good scrub.” He grinned. “If you feel up to it.”

“We could arrange a shower,” Magnus said, accepting the blue servo dangling in front of him. “For now, I’ve come to clean the door.”

“Oh. Let me help.”

“No.” He didn’t mean to snap, so he smoothed Max’s rattled plating by pulling him closer until their chassis grazed. “I do not want to subject you to the. . . disgusting comments.”

Max hid his nerves with a click of his glossa. “What do you think I heard in the Brig?” He slipped from the berth and, pleased that Magnus didn’t stop him, continued to the door. “You coming?”

“I take it you slept well after Rung left?” 

“No,” Max muttered. “But you’re here, so that doesn’t matter anymore.” 

Magnus unlocked the door and the two situated themselves accordingly, each with a bristly scrub and a bottle of cleaning solvent. They set to work scrubbing away Whirl’s profanity. Scrubbing away the hate, Whirl’s hate, Magnus put his all into it, and he could almost feel his own rage, incurable hatred, washing away in the suds. He wished that he could work a brush over Max’s hate, pain, fear, that he could clean the crevices until there was nothing left but the original, unmarred Fortress Maximus, like they were doing to the door. In a sense, he wished that Max never needed him. Not like this. 


	16. Chapter 16

Max tossed his scrub into the bucket when Ultra Magnus wasn’t paying attention. The filthy solvent and water splashed all over him as he collected the other supplies. He whirled, cursing, but the bubble of frustration popped when he saw Max. 

“You made a mess,” Magnus grumbled, feigning annoyance. Using a dry sponge, he started cleaning the grimy liquid off his frame and the floor. Rather than defending himself, Max grabbed hold of Magnus’ elbow and yanked him up. They flailed for a second before finding their footing, arms and servos twisted together. 

Magnus froze, alarmed by the sudden closeness, all too aware of the servo on his hip, the other bracing on his shoulder. Excitement coursed through him like he were a young mech; it wasn’t every day someone else threw him around. “What are you doing, Maximus?” he huffed, trying to sound collected. 

Max grinned, leaning forward another inch. “Helping you up.” When he spoke, Magnus could feel the tremors from his voice in his chassis, pressed flush against him. “Did you want to stay on the floor?”

“Not at all,” Magnus mock-scoffed. He searched Max’s flaming red optics for a sign of something, an inclination, a cause for this confidence outburst. They stayed entwined for a few more moments, and Magnus had to fight his servos from slipping around the white waist, from trailing ridged sides, from smoothing over blue hips. 

Fortress Maximus pulled away and retreated to the other side of the hall. Magnus desperately wanted him back, but he couldn’t fathom what he’d do if he actually got Max against him again. 

Max cleared his throat. “That doesn’t count, right?”

Magnus, cotton convoluting everything in his mind, was lost. “What?”

“Our walk.”

“Oh. No, cleaning does not count.” Magnus turned to pick up the cleaning supplies. “If you don’t mind, I should store these first.”

“Whatever you say, boss Bot.”

Magnus paused, taking note of how Max didn’t help pick anything up or offer to carry anything. On the way to the storage closet, they stayed on opposite sides of the hall. Every time Magnus glanced around the halls, he half expected to see Rung following them, but the only mech they ran into was Skids, and he was too preoccupied to notice. When he passed, he was muttering something under his breath about Swerve being a dumbass, and Magnus convinced himself he didn’t need to get involved. 

It wasn’t until they’d dumped everything into a supposed storage closet that Max walked closer. Magnus swore he even heard him humming, something old, one of the classics. Pausing at a window, Max leaned against the sill, staring out into the vast emptiness of space. 

“Do you think,” he started. “That, somewhere out there, someone exists who’s never heard of the war, never been affected by it?”

Ultra Magnus stared into the stars. “I am not sure. But new generations are being raised in a time of peace. I have hope that those young will be able to heal the universe in ways we could never fathom.”

“What about us? You don’t think we ancients will keep messing up, keep throwing everything and everyone into chaos?”

“If we haven’t learned from our actions yet, the ones who come after us will.” At least he hoped. New sparks were finally being nourished, not stomped out, and there was just an inkling to a brighter future. “We should focus on the present, now.”

Max shot him a lopsided look. “You’re more optimistic than I was expecting.”

“Would you rather I recite to you the infinite possibilities of failure and total destruction?” Magnus scoffed. “We have lived through that long enough.”

They stepped away from the window, following their pedes deeper into the ship. 

“What if we’re  _ still  _ living through it?”

Magnus subconsciously walked closer to Max, concern fogging his EM field. “Maximus,” he said. “Focus on the present, on these moments when there are no distractions.”

Max frowned. “It’s not that easy. You know that.”

“I do.” He wished he didn’t. 

After a moment or two of silence, Max cleared his throat. “Would you mind giving me your communication code? I’ve got Rung’s, but not yours. At this point,” he chuckled. “Seems like I should have both.”

Ultra Magnus recited the code immediately, and seconds after he got a confirmation ping from Max. A direct line was successfully established. In part, he was glad that emergencies would come right to him, at least that’s what he hoped. On the other hand, what in the Pits would he say to a panicking Max? It was different over comms.; what if he couldn’t get there in time? A servo on his arm grounded him, and he focused on the touch. Magnus forced a smile to a frowning Fortress Maximus. 

“This isn’t me forcing responsibility onto you, Magnus.” Max stepped closer, servo still on a blue forearm. “If it makes you feel better, I can only call you after we— _ good  _ dreams.” He smirked when Magnus realized what he almost said and flushed. 

Magnus wasn’t one to get embarrassed easily, but he could imagine what he’d do if Max called him to talk about. . .  _ that _ . He wasn’t sure if he was ashamed or if his plating was warming up. Trying to regain composure, he said, “I trust you to call when you need me, Maximus. Although, perhaps you should reserve the anatomy inquiries to Ratchet.”

Max grinned. “I respect Ratchet, but he intimidates me sometimes.” He turned and led the way to the work levels. Servos open, digits tapping his thighs as he walked, no trembling or tension in his back; Magnus let him lead. 

“Ratchet’s not a mech anyone wants to bother,” he said. “Although there are those who challenge him brazenly.”

They crammed into an elevator to reach the labs and the rest of the work level. 

“He’s finally got a mech for himself, then?” Max asked. The elevator dinged and the doors opened. “Tell me it isn’t Kup.”

“A younger mech; Drift.” Magnus paid closer attention to Max now. Already he could hear the low hum of voices, and if they kept moving, they’d be right in the middle of them. He didn’t know what to expect.

Max walked on like it was nothing, but the tapping stopped and his shoulders were squared; a defense stance. “That’s good,” he said, and the strain was obvious. “Ancients like us need invigorating company.”

“Invigorating does not have to be young and new.” Ultra Magnus let his EM field graze Max. His shoulders relaxed ever so slightly. They were getting closer to the first room, Perceptor’s lab. 

“What, you really think we can keep up with a couple of young mechs?” Max asked.

Magnus chuckled dryly. “Not at all.” Passing Perceptor’s area, they headed further in, towards the weaponry sector, where the most noise was coming from. Magnus gave courtesy nods to Trailcutter and Sureshot when they slipped by in the hall, but when his optics caught a blue, bow-legged mech, he glared. 

Fortress Maximus stared straight ahead. Whirl eyed them both, catching the fury in Magnus’ optics, and grinned. He couldn’t let go of an opportunity like that. 

So he sidled up next to Max, even dared put a servo on his arm. “So, you like my little art show?” he quipped. 

Max was stock still, and the other few mechs in the hall retreated into labs, murmuring about another shootout. Magnus had been impressed so far by Max’s resolve, and as much as he hated it, he had to let him deal with this on his own. Rung said he needed to be acclimated to a normal life, unfortunately dealing with Whirl was a constant on the Lost Light. 

Maximus smacked Whirl’s servo off him. “How kind of you,” he rumbled. “Let me pay you back.”

Whirl tilted his helm in mock innocence. “What, can’t you handle a tiny bit of criticism?”

“I’ve heard everything you could spout.” Squaring off, Max towered over Whirl. “Do you really think I’m going to validate your twisted brain and beat you to a pulp? I already did that once.”

Ultra Magnus took a warning step forward, warning both mechs, but didn’t involve himself any further. As much as his spark yearned to step in, his processor scolded him. 

“Not gonna lie,” Whirl said. “That was pretty boring for me too. See yuh around, big guy.” And he walked off. 

Magnus couldn’t understand Whirl on a good day, but he soothed his nerves with the knowledge that Max was okay, hell he was great. Resolved that with no violence, no breakdowns, no shootouts; a success in Magnus’ book. One that he would be gladly reporting to Rung. 


	17. Chapter 17

After Whirl disappeared, Magnus and Fort Max made their way back to the elevator that would take them to the floor with their bedrooms on it. 

“Magnus?” Max asked once in the elevator. 

He pressed the button for their floor, mildly concerned for what was going to come next. “Yes?”

“How was your day?”

Magnus ignored the elevator doors when they opened. “If you need a distraction, please just tell me, Max.” He got out right before the doors shut. 

“It’s not just that,” Max said, still suspiciously calm on the surface. “I want to listen to you, for this to be two ways.”

What was  _ this _ ? They already crossed the line of “helper” and patient, so where did that leave them? Magnus shook his helm, subconsciously rolling his shoulders. “There was nothing thrilling about my day, it would bore you.”

Max kept walking, glancing over his shoulder. “ _ You _ are the thrilling part.”

Ultra Magnus scoffed and hurried to catch up. “It would put you to sleep,” he grumbled, grasping at straws even though he knew damn well he’d give Max anything he asked for.

“Well, I’ll get comfortable then.”

At the door, Magnus punched in the security code and cautiously went in. Max followed, a guiding servo on the other’s spinal strut. When the door slid shut, another servo wrapped around Magnus’ wrist and turned him. Fortress Maximus was slow and deliberate, optics searing into Magnus’ as he backed him against the door.

“You are a damn good mech,” Max rumbled. “Dense though.” 

Ultra Magnus shifted on his pedes, taking note of the way Max’s servos barely brushed his hips, of how much he was leaning forward, leaving a good foot or so between their chassis. He wasn’t trapped; it was the exact opposite. Max was giving him a way out. 

Tanks twisting into knots, Magnus met Max’s gaze again. “Max, I am not as dense as you think,” he whispered. The euphoric tension in the room felt like a giant bubble, and he refused to pop it. 

Max closed his optics and inched closer, just enough to rest his forehelm against Magnus’. It was a wondrously intimate gesture, even more so than the servos on Magnus’ hips or the combined sound of their purring engines. For the first time since they entered the makeshift room, Magnus lifted his arms, wrapping them loosely around Max. His optics shuttered as he basked in the sensation of a warm frame against him, of curious energy fields overlapping. 

They were floating on their own little planet, everything but each other forgotten. Trauma, responsibilities, regrets; all were thrown out the window. And when Max pressed his lips to Magnus’ he lost himself in the touch, so warm and gentle. When they paused, he let his helm tilt back, lips slightly parted, swathed in something not unlike peace. 

Fortress Maximus pressed closer, chassis grazing, before his presence vanished, leaving Magnus cold. Concern trampled the bliss, and Magnus honed in on Max, hunched on his berth, servos covering his faceplates, fans whirring. 

“Max?” He was slow to approach. “What’s wrong?”

The hulking mech rubbed his optics before forcing his servos down to his lap. Covering his groin. “Sorry,” he said, a startling rasp to his voice. “I’m sorry. Please leave, Magnus.”

Ratchet’s voice echoed in Magnus’ processor, and he had to bite back a wave of bile. “Of course. Fortress Maximus, if you need anything, call me.” He left the room, but refused to go any further, so he planted himself outside Max’s room. Standing guard, pretending not to hear the muffled shouting and fists beating against the wall. 

Only when Ultra Magnus’ internal chronometer allerted him that it was time for his shift did he move. Ignoring stiff and cramped joints, he pushed off the floor where he’d kept his vigil. Even though he was outside the other’s room, Magnus gave a small nod in the general direction of Max’s berth before he headed out. The groaning and muffled words had faded to a stop a few hours ago, and he could only hope that meant Max was resting now. 

At the office, Magnus planted himself behind his desk, for once exhausted just from looking at the heap of work he needed to catch up on. Part of him wanted to be bitter, blame Maximus for his falling behind, but that miniscule leach was crushed immediately, buried under stacks of paperwork and datapads. Fortress Maximus never asked for Magnus’ help, and he sure as hell would never be the one to blame for Magnus’ slips. 

Near the end of his shift, Rodimus, sporting a fresh wax-job, invited himself into Magnus’ office. He barely looked up, focus solely on one of the last field reports he had to make for the day. 

Rodimus, impatient as ever, rapped a knuckle on his desk. “Hey, big guy.” He perched on the corner, close enough that his aft was center in Magnus’ field of vision. “Why don’t you come to Swerve’s tonight? Today’s one of the slow ones, so it won’t be too busy, and maybe we can get you to loosen up some.”

Ultra Magnus signed off at the bottom of the paper before finally looking up. To his own surprise, he found himself agreeing. Maybe his tanks were running a little too low, maybe he needed another distraction, hell, maybe he just wanted a drink. Something biting, that would soothe his nerves, get him drowsy enough for a good night’s sleep. Either way, roughly an hour later and he was hunched over the bar, ignoring a rambling captain to his right and the bartender at his front. 

He stared into his drink, the light red reminding him of Fortress Maximus’ optics when he just woke up; dreary and not all there. Taking another sip, Magnus tried to remember what Max’s favorite drink used to be, back on Cybertron. Something strong, bitter, something Magnus could never quite manage. 

Leaning forward just enough to see behind the bar, Magnus scanned the hidden bottles. “Swerve,” he said absentmindedly. 

The red mech was there in a split second. “What can I get yuh, Mags— Magnus, I mean. Spritzer, on the rocks?”

Magnus pointed to a long-necked bottle, the contents perturbingly neon yellow. “How strong is that?”

“That?” Swerve let loose a whistle. “One hit, and  _ Grimlock’s  _ drunk. You thinking of taste-testing?”

“No.” He tapped his digits on the dewy side of his glass. “Although I am interested in taking a sample for. . . later.” If he needed a drink, he could only imagine how Fortress Maximus felt, and he wanted to help, always help. 

Swerve waited for a muttering Rodimus to wander off before leaning across the bar. “Since this is my bar, there’s nothing wrong with a pal askin’ for a favor. But. . .” He grinned. “A favor for a favor. Y’know, it’s how the universe works. Spark for a spark, all that slag. So, what d’yuh say?”

“What do you want in return?” Ultra Magnus downed the last of his drink, as unceremonious as it was, itching to get back to Max with a bottle of whatever he was bargaining for. 

“Let’s call it immunity—”

Magnus snorted. “Absolutely not.”

Swerve backed off, waved his arms frantically. “Hey, here me out for a sec. Immunity for what happens  _ in  _ my bar. Say, hypothetically of course, I get my hands on some crazy condensed, super potent banned engex. If I put the work in to get it, I should be able to distribute it too, don’t you think?”

“I think you should not have obtained an illegal substance in the first place,” Magnus grumbled. “Hypothetically.”

“What about —and bear with me— all the regulations the Lost Light has around interfacing? I mean, sometimes yuh just want to get it on in a bar, be frisky, spontaneous.” Swerve made the mistake of glancing over Magnus’ shoulder. 

It was only natural that Magnus track his gaze to a dimly lit corner booth. The table had been pushed away from the booth itself, just far enough that he could see more than he wanted to. Tailgate, visor fritzing with charge, was (there was no pleasant way to put it) riding the life out of Cyclonus’ spike. Helm tossed back, servos bracing himself on the shaking table; there was nothing subtle about what they were doing. Ultra Magnus didn’t realize he’d been staring, soaking in Tailgate’s jerky movements over his partner’s endowed spike, until Swerve cleared his throat. Magnus forced an awkward stretch, a sore attempt to hide his burning shame. 

“Agreed,” he finally said. “Your bar may have thin,  _ very  _ thin, immunity in those regards. That is all.” He struggled to regain the regal steadiness that preceded him. “I expect you take precautions in order to protect your patrons, and if harm comes to anyone, I will need to hear of it. Understood?”

Swerve was already pushing the whole bottle of yellow engex across the counter. “Understood. Nice doin’ business with you, Magnus.”

Magnus didn’t stay at the bar much longer. His lines were buzzing and he wasn’t quite ready to reactivate his FIM chip, not with the long-necked bottle hooked under his arm or the tingle in his lower back. 


	18. Chapter 18

Ultra Magnus, against his better judgement, took a swig of the special engex when he got back to his room. It struck him like a punch in the gut, bitter and horrible, like straight bleach mixed with cleaner fluid. He safely tucked the bottle in his desk and retreated to the berth, nerve endings jumping, processor fixed permanently on Tailgate, unashamedly taking a spike in public, loving every second of it. It’d been so long, but Magnus’ servos knew exactly what to do when his array opened. 

Eager digits stroked his spike, the first few touches working a content sigh out of him. Blaming the alcohol, Magnus did not let his fantasizing of Tailgate stop him, out of guilt or anything else. Slanted with the wall, imagining a tiny, eager bot crawling over him, touching his frame, teasing sensitive wires; in the smoky fantasy, Magnus looked into the face of his figmented partner. 

Fortress Maximus stared back. Magnus’ tanks clenched but he tried to blink away the image, tried to ignore the brisk cold of his array. Every time he started to sink back into budding pleasure, Max writhed in front of him, intake hanging open, slack, optics fritzing with pain and fear. 

With seconds to spare, Magnus made it to his personal washracks before his tanks emptied. He braced himself, arms shaking, on the edge of the sink as he heaved, unaware of the tears mixing with the mess swirling down the drain. 

Ultra Magnus paced the ship when he couldn’t sleep and there was no leftover work to be done in the office. Walking was a distraction, as was anything he did, from the night, the confusion and deep-seated fear. Doorways were examined for stability, running his servos along the frame, searching for cracks. What would he do if he found a gap in the metal, a gash, an irreparable wound? Would his answer change if the metal under his servos was alive?

Near the middle of his shift, the ship got stuck in an asteroid belt and Magnus welcomed the chaos. It took hours to maneuver out, and afterwards there were extensive repairs and damage reports that needed logged. More than enough work to keep his mind from wandering. With so many mechs running around, Rodimus and Megatron shouting orders, arguing over what direction they should assume, and the likes, it was hard enough to focus on the proper grammar of his reports. For once, Ultra Magnus considered himself grateful of the constant, inescapable insanity the Lost Light harbored. 

By the time his informal session with Fortress Maximus came around, Magnus had burnt through the earlier vigor he’d thrown at his work. Now, as he filed each completed document away in rigorous order, his last bits of focus ground a throbbing headache near the base of his neck. He worked slow in those last few minutes, tiptoeing around the monster gurgling in his tanks; did Max want to see him after the last visit? Ultra Magnus stuffed the worry as far down his throat as it could go, gathered his things, and headed out. 

He knocked twice, called Max’s name, knocked again, but no response. Knocking relentlessly, he sent a private ping, an invitation to call, to Max. Still nothing. Magnus paced the hall as he called Rung, trying to quell the panic with logic. Impromptu therapy session. Emergency tri— 

“Yes?” Rung answered. 

Magnus was already walking towards the psychotherapist’s office. “Where is Fortress Maximus?” He hoped Rung didn’t catch the pitch change. 

“He is in the medibay. Max meets with Ratchet for physical therapy and well being checkups every other week, although typically not on the same day as your. . .” he paused. “. . . sessions.”

“Is he healthy?” Magnus asked, adjusting his direction so he was headed towards the medibay. “Or should I be concerned?”

On the other line, Rung sighed. Magnus could picture him adjusting his glasses and crossing his legs. “Maximus’ body is still recovering. You already know the state of his mind.”

Magnus nodded greetings to Tailgate and Brainstorm when they passed. “He is improving, I think,” he said. “But you would know better than I.”

“I must agree with you, Ultra Magnus. However, there are new strains he is encountering that are dredging up fresh trauma, and I cannot emphasize enough that control is essential for his stability.” A pause. “I assume you are going to fetch Maximus from the medibay.”

“Yes.” Magnus was only a few turns away, thanks to his expansive legs and splintering calm. Cautious, he added, “Unless you advise otherwise.”

Rung didn’t answer right away. After a couple of seconds, he said, “Do as you wish. I have no control over you, sir.” They both knew damn well that if Rung wanted to exercise control, he had the standing to do so. It was almost like a veiled warning, one Magnus certainly took note of. 

He ended the call seconds before he entered the medibay. Red Alert and First Aid barely glanced up, each situated with their own projects. “Ratchet’s with a patient,” one of them mumbled. Magnus exvented his annoyance and went to wait by Ratchet’s empty office. He figured Max was in one of the private exam rooms, and as he leaned against the wall he wondered what they were doing. Physical therapy after three years of physical trauma must be extensive. It would have to be; cryogenic regeneration can only do so much. 

Roughly a joor passed before Ratchet popped out of a private room. He scowled at Magnus, disappeared into his office, and returned a minute later just to go back to the exam room. Magnus didn’t mind the waiting; it gave him plenty of time to think about what control looked like in regards to his “sessions” with Maximus. He continued to mull the topic over until Ratchet reappeared, Fort Max trailing behind. 

Ratchet said something to Max and he went off to do something with First Aid, while Ratchet walked over to Magnus. “Should I even bother to call his escorts?” the medic grumbled.

Magnus glanced at Max, the hunched shoulders, tense back and shifting pedes. “No,” he said. 

“What do you know about his physical wounds?” Ratchet asked suddenly, bland and blunt as ever. 

He’d heard rumors, choppy eye-witness reports, but that was different. It wasn’t knowing, only assuming. “Nothing,” Magnus said. “But I want to know, if perhaps knowing would lead to understanding. If it could teach me how to approach him. . .” 

Ratchet snorted. “Have you asked Fort Max about it?”

Ultra Magnus could not imagine just asking Max to relive his nightmares embodied like that. It would undoubtedly trigger an episode powerful enough to destroy them all. How Ratchet could suggest such a thing seemed appalling in of itself.

“Magnus,” Ratchet said, filling in the silence. “You’re a fool if you think I don’t see the way you look at him. It’s potent, how worried and hopeful you are, always wanting to be next to him, make sure he’s okay. That, kid, always leads to more than friendship. Because that, that sincere, irrevocable caring is what love looks like, feels like, however you want to romanticize it.”

Love. The word used to be bitter, but now it lit fireworks on Magnus’ glossa. He was terrified, at the same time, that everything Ratchet was saying was true, even though in his spark he knew damn well it all was. 

“Now, I’m no expert,” Ratchet said. “Never have been, never will be. But I’ve been around long enough to watch Bots fall because of what they thought was love. Regardless, if Max wants you to know something, he will tell you. If he doesn’t, don’t you dare push him, Ultra Magnus. Now get out of my office, you’re crowding me.”


	19. Chapter 19

Fortress Maximus didn’t question why it was Magnus walking him back to his room, let alone say much of anything. One servo twisted incessantly around his other wrist, and his pedes scraped on the ground, producing a grinding metal sound. Magnus pushed it to the back of his mind: If Max wanted to talk about it, he would do so on his own. In the meantime, small talk was vexing, but silence was far worse. 

Magnus subconsciously cleared his throat, swallowing all the questions and fears stuck to the roof of his intake. “So,” he started. He fought to hide a grimace. What could he ask that he hadn’t asked a hundred times already? “Where would you like to go for our walk today?”

Max’s footsteps faltered ever so slightly, and Magnus slowed down to accommodate. 

“I’m exhausted,” Max said. “Is it possible to trade the walk in for a, uh, touch session?” He whispered  _ touch  _ as if it were a dangerous word, and his grip tightened on his wrist as he waited for a response.

Ultra Magnus sent Max a reassuring smile. “Of course.”

“Thank you.”

Both mechs opted for silence after that, each acutely aware of how their strides matched, and how when they turned corners their arms brushed. At the room, Magnus unlocked the door and followed Max in. For a moment after the door closed and locked, they stood in the middle of the room, a few feet from each other. 

With only half of the lights on, Magnus basked in the soft glow, allowing his energy field to relax and mingle with Max’s. He was surprised to see Max situate himself on the berth, legs hanging over the edge, vivid red optics shimmering, staring. 

“You are beautiful,” he whispered. Immediately, a flush of light blue tinged his cheeks and he looked away.

Magnus had no idea how to react. Beautiful wasn’t something he was used to being called, and for that to come from Fortress Maximus. . . He found himself muttering a lame  _ thank you.  _ In his embarrassment, his mind wandered back to his conversation with Ratchet and, barely thinking, he knelt where he stood. Max stared, optics darting and skeptical, perhaps concerned. 

“Fortress Maximus,” Magnus said. “Do you understand that you, and you alone, control me? In this moment, in my work, in recharge; tell me what you want.” When Max didn’t respond, he started to worry that he’d been too direct, that those few words meant too much. The last thing Magnus wanted to do was overwhelm Max, and he berated himself in the silence for having done just that. 

A few more minutes passed and nothing. 

“If you want me to leav—”

“I don’t,” Max interrupted, his voice a low rasp. “I want you here. Always.”

Ultra Magnus smiled and remained perfectly still as the other stood and headed for the door. Didn’t touch it, just lingered by the security pad.

“Do you think we can go to your quarters?” Max nodded towards one of the security cameras in the room. “I want to be with you and  _ just  _ you.”

Pulling himself up, Magnus made a conscious effort to ignore the implications of that statement. He unlocked the door and extended a servo to Maximus. “I would gladly share my room with you, old friend,” he said. Mentally he winced at the slip, the distinction of friend. But that’s what they were, wasn’t it? Magnus shrugged classification off, focusing rather on the warm servo in his and the excitement in his tanks. Being alone, truly alone together meant so much more than words could, and he would etch the coming time into his processor, save it like he did every interaction with the old prison warden. 

“You know,” Max whispered as they navigated the hallways, “we’ve never really been alone, have we? In the brig, in my room, all throughout the halls; cameras seem to be our biggest third wheel,” he joked.

Magnus thought of Rung and how the mech insisted on knowing everything, witnessing and analyzing it. He, too, was grateful for the potential break from prying optics. Reassuring both himself and Maximus, he said, “I can assure you that my personal quarters have no cameras or recording devices.”

There was more room in Magnus’ quarters, enough so that the two could move freely and comfortably if they wished. Max went right on in, disappearing for just a second in the personal washracks. 

One servo on the doorknob, Magnus paused before shutting the door. “Maximus?” he called.

The mech popped back out of the bathroom and moved to the cushioned berth. “Yeah?”

“Do you want me to close the door?” It felt odd, asking for permission for such a menial task, but Magnus kept steady. It may be his room, but everything in it was Max’s. He commanded it, he created action.

Max squinted at Magnus for a second. “Unless you want an audience, I’d say yeah,” he eventually quipped, refreshingly cocky. 

Magnus hummed and closed the door. “And the lock?”

That one took a little longer, but he stayed silent and waited for Max to decide. If he wasn’t certain of the situation, feeling trapped could be detrimental. So when Max shook his helm, Magnus disregarded his own apprehension and joined him on the berth. They both sat with their backs against the wall, legs stretched out down the bed, Magnus between Max and the wall. 

Only then was there an awkward pause, until Magnus remembered the bottle of engex in his dresser. Although he wasn’t entirely sure if something so potent would mix well with the situation (the situation he was still struggling to decipher), he knew it would help them both relax. As war frames, let alone commanders, it was inherent that they were masking their nerves with a calm facade, and he wanted to change that. 

Shifting slightly on the berth, Magnus pointed to his dresser. “Do you mind grabbing something from the top drawer there?” he asked. 

“No problem.” Max returned to the berth bearing his treasure, grinning like a madman. “Where in the Pits did you get this?” He twisted the top off and took a sniff, grimacing from the scent.

Magnus chuckled. “I made a deal.”

“Must’ve been one hell of a bargain.” Max glanced around. “Got any glasses?”

“Oh, no, I don’t.” He sighed. “My bad.” 

Max grinned and lifted the bottle, barely taking a sip of the sloshing liquid. Ultra Magnus tried not to stare at his gorgeous, plump, slick lips. He wiped his mouth with the back of a servo and passed the bottle over. 

“No problem,” Max said. “Stuff’s just as strong as I remember, too.” 

He smiled and Magnus took a drink, savoring the touch of his lips against the bottle Max’s touched first. It was thrilling, especially when their thighs scraped whenever they moved, but it was nothing like the real thing. And the real thing was so close, so damn close he was sending shivers down Magnus’ spine, youthful elation pooling in his stomach. Glancing up, searing red optics caught his, and he couldn’t find his words, so he traded the liquor. Fortress Maximus chuckled and tossed back another sip.

“I had a dream last night,” he said, sounding almost wistful. “A good one; first I’ve had in. . . in a long fucking time.”

“What was it about?” 

Max shifted, bending a leg and bringing it closer to his chest, slinging a careless arm over the knee. “The Crystal Gardens.” He snorted. “You got in my head, I think. Filled it with all your hippy nonsense about those rocks.”

Magnus rolled his optics as they talked and continued to pass the bottle back and forth, gradually feeding the buzz in their veins and the warmth in their tanks. 

“I think,” Magnus said, “that you always enjoyed the Gardens. I simply reminded you.”

“Whatever.” Another sip. “You were there, in my dream.”

“Oh?”

Max grabbed Magnus’ servo and placed it on his thigh, a mischievous glint to his optics. “You droned on and on about the science behind the crystals. But. . . you were so gorgeous in their reflections and the suns’, I didn’t have the spark to stop you.”

His kisses on Magnus’ shoulder were a pleasant addition to the praise and Magnus leaned into the touch. “Your dream sounds boring,” he dared tease. 

“It wasn’t, not with you there.” The careful kisses stopped and the engex was set on the floor. “I want to show you something,” Max whispered. 

Ultra Magnus leaned forward to press the crest of his helm against the side of the other’s neck. It was all he could manage when no words felt right. Showing was not speaking, and his words could wait, especially when he feared they would convolute and confuse. 


	20. Chapter 20

When Fortress Maximus positioned himself on the opposite end of the berth and hooked strong digits under his own shoulder armor, Magnus didn’t know what to do. He was frozen, half in a panic, and Max was gritting his dentae and tugging until a quiet click signaled the armor’s detachment. Max’s servos shook as he placed the piece on the ground by the berth, and he didn’t look up when he spoke, voice quaking. 

“Look,” was all he said.

Ultra Magnus waited for more, but when nothing came he allowed himself to lean closer and get a good look of the mangled protoform. Without the one shoulder pad, he could see the sensitive ball junction of Max’s shoulder and the jagged scar on its every side; as if the limb had been ripped off. His tanks flipped. 

“Max,” he whispered, and let it at that. What else was he supposed to say?  _ Thank you? I’m sorry Overlord eviscerated you and I was none the wiser for  _ three  _ years? _ Silence expressed his reaction better than words ever could. 

Max started to do the same slow, methodical removal of his other shoulder’s armor. This plating, too, was stacked on the floor, out of sight. When he looked up, his optics were dull, as if he were back down in the brig, and they flit around, searching for a looming figure in the shadows. Magnus leaned forward again, extending his servos as an invitation, a lifeline. He tried to catch Max’s gaze as he tugged him closer, until they could comfortably wrap their arms around one another. Magnus smiled into Max’s neck when arms tightened around his waist. 

“I wanted to show you,” Max whispered, “everything.”

Magnus thought his spark was going to beat a hole through his chassis. Everything, unrequited, unadultured, just them. Them and everything they were. Warm in each others possessive grasps, energy fields meshing and dancing cautiously around one another. After a few minutes, he asked, “Are you scared?” 

“Not anymore.” Max let go but didn’t back away at all. 

They were so close, and Magnus so happy. Overwhelmed with joy because Fortress Maximus was not scared. This massive, intimidating mech in his arms wasn’t lost in a haze of terror; he was there,  _ just  _ there. There in Magnus’ arms, and content, if his field and soft smile and steady, caressing servos were anything to go by. 

“You know, I never thought I’d show anyone these scars,” Max muttered. 

Magnus brushed his thumb over the other’s white thigh, earning a shiver. “I am honored,” he said. “And it will change nothing. We all have scars, why should we be ashamed? They are evidence of what we have survived.”

The corners of Max’s mouth twitched downward. “There isn’t a scar, a memory or something, that you’d hide at all costs?”

“There is one. . .”

It was a show of trust, barely hesitating to refract the protective armor of his chassis. His spark flared at the exposure, small tendrils stretching for Maximus. Had anyone else asked, he would have said no. Would never have allowed himself this crippling vulnerability. It’d been ages since the. . . incident, yet Magnus couldn’t help the instinctual knot in his stomach or the way his field collapsed in on itself as tightly as possible. Max’s optics flickered, dangerously bright in the glow of the exposed spark. He sat completely still, a stone rendition of himself. 

Magnus sifted through his gushing thoughts to find the right explanation. Eventually, he said, “Do you see the scar, down the center?” It was exhausting, keeping his optics open and trained on Max, keeping his emergency protocol from slamming his chassis shut. 

“Yes, I. . .” Max took Magnus’ servo in his; grip tight and warm, something to hold onto. “But your spark, it’s still powerful,” he whispered. “So blue and bright. A hundred percent you.”

“And it is all for you, every last twisted tendril and heaving pulse.” Ultra Magnus reached out and met Max half way for a kiss, like galaxies colliding and exploding. He could taste the ashy particles of dead stars in Max’s cheek, could feel the swirling reds and blues and every bright light on his glossa. Fortress Maximus was a solar system under Magnus’ digits, in beautiful, breath-taking movement, creating life and planets and black holes and consuming light. A constant, blazing sun spreading its heat all over Max and into Magnus, that contagious, passionate flury. When they parted, it was only for a nanoclick, to invent cold air and exvent steam, a yawn really. 

Max pecked a kiss on Magnus’ jaw and grinned. “Tired already?”

Ultra Magnus smoothed his servo down Max’s side. “How are you not?” he asked. 

“I’m used to not recharging.” Max shrugged. A servo on each of Magnus’ shoulders, he nudged him back until he was laying down, stretched out on the berth. 

He had half the processor power left to close his chassis and waited for Max to replace his armor before beckoning him over. “Lay with me,” he said. 

Max shot him a half-grin and clambered onto the berth. “Do you think you’re smooth?”

“No,” Magnus said, arching his brows. “My armor is rather rough, in fact.”

Max, on his side, inched close enough that he could sling an arm over Magnus’ chest and use the other to prop up both their helms. “Shut up,” he whispered. 

Magnus was more than glad to do just that and bask in the warmth pressed to his side, powerful arm across his chassis, a strong, healthy spark pulsing in harmony with his. Max’s slowing vents, his twitching digits, the peace behind his relaxed faceplates. Magnus curled an arm around Max’s back, servo barely touching his hip, and let the exhaustion of the last few days lead him into recharge. 


	21. Chapter 21

It may have been an odd feeling, waking up with Fortress Maximus’ weight pinning him down, but Magnus wasn’t opposed to it. Not when the other’s frame kept him warm and more comfortable than he could process. Ultra Magnus was content with lying perfectly still and listening to Max’s whistle-snore, watching his mouth twitch with every exvent. 

Magnus traced circles on Max’s white hips, absentmindedly getting closer and closer to the biolights tucked closer to his waist. How any of this came to fruition was wondrous, and Magnus forced himself to focus on that, rather than mapping out his schedule for the day like usual. He even turned off the alarms signalling the start of his shift, even though he was always there long before they rang. 

“Mmm,” Max groaned. He stirred just enough to prop his chin on the crest of Magnus’ chassis. Managing a sloppy smile, he blinked slow, but the usual terror, the shadow of nightmares and flashbacks, weren’t there. “Morning,” he rumbled. 

Logic said that his voice was so low and gruff since he’d just woke up and his vocalizers had yet to stabilize, but logic had nothing to do with the shiver that went straight to Magnus’ spine. “Good morning,” he choked. Not satisfied, he reset his vocalizer and added, “How are you?”

Max grinned. “I feel well, in fact, rather splendid. And you, good sir?”

“I am also well.” He knew Max was mocking him, but how could he not go along with it when those stunning reds glowed in the dark, so full of life. 

Suddenly, Max’s optics darkened with something akin to anxiety and he propped himself up on his elbows, not losing eye contact with Magnus. “Last night,” he started, “your spark. . .”

Ghosting a servo over one of Max’s shoulder struts, Magnus gave a sad half smile and left it at that. Max sank back down, digits furling possessively on the edges of Magnus’ collar. 

Trying to quell the memories, the ache in his spark, Magnus said, “You slept.”

“Yeah.”

“Well?”

“First night without nightmares,” Max said, slur of ease to his words as his servos spread. “So I’d say yeah.” 

Magnus jumped when a servo slid between his legs. Another searched for gaps in his armor and exposed wires. Glossa lodged in his throat, he coughed awkwardly. “Max?” he choked out.

“Yes?” Fortress Maximus didn’t stop moving, caressing slowly. One digit hooked on Magnus’ warm codpiece and tugged lightly. Max gave a shiteating grin when Magnus gasped and his legs pressed together. 

On one hand, Magnus was concerned whether or not this was a good idea, and one the other, his hips twitched under Max’s insistent touches. He couldn’t deny the throb in his array, but something gnawed at the bottom of his fuel pump. 

“Are you sure about this, Fortress Maximus?” he finally asked. 

Max answered him with a kiss not unlike ones they’d shared before. Control melting, lip nibbling, glossa dancing, all consuming passion. Magnus keened into the kiss, holding Max with one servo loosely resting on the back of his helm. 

When his fans kicked on, they roared to life with the strength akin to a loadbearer’s engine. Max’s jaws clamped, dentae puncturing Magnus’ bottom lip. They both lurched back, and Max almost fell off the berth. Magnus ignored the energon dribbling down his chin when he saw the other’s saucer-sized optics and clamped, rattling plating. 

“Max,” he said, reaching out to hold onto an elbow, “what’s wrong? What did I—”

He slipped and crashed onto the floor, a giant heap of cursing metal. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. Stop— no. Shit. Magnus—don’t. Fuck. . .”

Magnus moved before he could think. He slid off the berth and wrapped his arms around Max and used a gentle servo to raise his helm. “Fortress Maximus, focus on me.” The mech writhed in his arms, optics flashing as he continued to mutter. “Do you feel my servos? They aren’t hurting you, are they?”

Max was verbally unresponsive, but his servos found their hold on Magnus’ sides and squeezed until they left dents. His optics darted to the side, and in the brief moment they met Magnus’, the terror was meshed with apology, guilt. 

“Good,” Magnus rumbled, spark breaking. At least he was somewhat cognizant. “Good, ground yourself in me, Max. Don’t worry about dents or scratches, if you need to hold on for dear life, let me be your anchor.”

Seeing a grown mech cry was disorienting —Magnus would never get over that— but when Max couldn’t hide his in time, Magnus hooked a digit under his chin and lifted. Silent and meticulous, he brushed the tears away with his thumb. “I am sorry,” he whispered, loathing the silence. Mostly because he could hear the whine of Max’s engine and the grind of dentae against dentae. 

When Max didn’t say anything, he continued, “I am not familiar with your. . . I do not know how to act for you, but I want to. I need to, Max. I’ll learn.” He paused to swipe energon off his chin. “I will never hurt you. That much I can vow with my whole spark.” His only response was a turned helm and hidden face. 

“When I was young, during the Golden Age,” Magnus said, “I met a mech. Personality bigger than his frame. Much bigger.” At this point, he was rambling to fill empty space and maybe, just maybe, answer a question or two. “I thought I. . . I trusted him, more than I should have.”

Max squeezed his armor again but said nothing. 

“He tried to harvest my spark,” Magnus forced out. His scar ached from the memory, from everything he wasn’t saying, from the admission itself. “I fought back, he slipped, and. . .”

“You survived.” Max lifted his helm and swiped at his optics with the back of a servo. 

“And so did you.”

The ex-warden sat up and rested on his haunches, servos curled into fists on either side of him. “Who was the medic?”

“Nickel.” 

“If I ever run into her, I’ll thank her.” Max stood and helped Magnus up after. 

The notion was nice. But. . . “I believe she works with the D. J. D. now.”

Max snorted. “Never mind.” He paused, still not meeting Magnus’ gaze. “Rung’s calling me,” he said. 

Of course. No cameras meant a vanished patient. “You should take it, and I will see you back to your room.”

It was the briefest of looks, hardly a glance, yet a clear plea. 


	22. Chapter 22

Rung was waiting outside Max’s makeshift holding cell when they arrived. “Field trip?” he asked, the slightest bite to his voice. As the two warframes got closer, he continued, “Although I suggested assimilation and more interaction with other Bots aboard the ship, I did not mean that rules could be disregarded, Ultra Magnus.” He unlocked the door and waited for Max to silently slip inside before closing it and fixing Magnus with a sour expression. 

“Rung, do you believe these ‘rules’ are helping Max?”

The question was enough to deflate most of the psychoanalysts’ irritation. He crossed his arms and started down the hall. “No. But, safety regulations are important: I’m surprised you would forget that.”

“I didn’t forget anything.” Magnus muttered. Rung shrank out of sight and left him there alone. He wondered if that was how Max felt, even if someone was right outside his door, did his spark ache with regret and abandonment? His entire life he’d refused to acknowledge the loneliness he draped over himself, but Max was forced into it, restricted to a fucking storage closet with a berth. 

Work passed as it did every other day; not riveting, but safe, and Magnus managed to stay busy his whole shift. On the other hand, Rodimus was in and out of the deck, always twirling something between his digits, and Megatron stayed stooped over a computer screen, back stiff. Everyone seemed tense —more so than usual— and they were quiet, fidgeting in their seats, tapping their pedes, war-toned senses warning of danger, although none were clear at the moment. Ultra Magnus felt it too in the tingling at the ends of his digits and the pinch of his fuel tanks. 

Magnus was honestly surprised to step into Fortress Maximus’ hall and not see Rung. Although the mech was often docile, he was fiercely passionate about his patients and their well being. In some cases, like Max’s, that seemed like one hell of an oxymoron. Magnus knocked on the door and who answered but the wry orange mech. 

It was odd, being in the room with the lights on, glaring against Max’s armor. Rung closed the door but didn’t move away from it, as if on guard. Magnus desperately wanted to sit on the berth next to Max, hold his servo and bear the coming whiplash together. He sat on the workbench facing the berth instead. 

“Ultra Magnus, Fortress Maximus. . .” Rung sighed and adjusted his glasses. “The improvement I’ve seen in the past few weeks is undeniable, and I thought it was time to reevaluate your situation.”

Max glanced at Magnus. “What part?” he asked. 

“For one, I’ve spoken with Rodimus and Megatron regarding your status on the brig’s registry, and I made a personal recommendation for your removal.”

Magnus couldn’t help but lean forward in his seat, optics fixed on Rung. Part of him wanted to call the psychoanalyst’s bluff, but the sincerity and professionalism he carried himself with said otherwise. What good would it do for Rung to lie about this? Besides, Magnus was too caught up in what he was saying. Max could be free. 

“And they think I’m ready?” Max asked. 

Rung nodded. “As do I. There is one mech who I’ve yet to speak to though.” He looked pointedly at Magnus.

He didn’t need to think at all. “Yes.”

“Now, this is a process,” Rung started, “and we will still meet for sessions, Max, but you are now free to come and go from this room as you please. I expect you to contact either myself or Ultra Magnus when you need to.”

The informality of the release was odd, to say the least, but Magnus wasn’t about to let himself get caught up in it. After all, he was becoming a firm believer in the idea that rules and regulations don’t lead to healing. 

Rung’s lips twitched with something akin to a smile. “For the next week, you will be under surveillance and your behavior monitored to make sure that this is a successful transition. Your weapons will remain unarmed, and you are not permitted to leave the ship or visit the armory, but you otherwise have free reign. Do you agree to these conditions?”

Max nodded, optics serene. 

“Verbal confirmation, Max,” Magnus whispered. That part he wouldn’t let up on. 

“I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapter, hope you enjoyed it though :)


	23. Chapter 23

The first thing Fortress Maximus wanted to do was take a walk. He insisted on Magnus’ company, and the two wandered the ship aimlessly, basking in the other’s presence, quiet and contemplative. Somehow, they managed to end up on the dock of the oil reservoir, staring out over the black expanse. 

Max sat down and—against Magnus’ transgressions—let his legs dangle over the edge. Magnus shifted on his pedes but didn’t sit. Rather, he shuttered his optics and thought back to their first time down there. When Maximus asked if he was weak. Magnus opened his optics and approached the other mech. 

“You have come so far, old friend,” he said as he sat next to Max. 

“Wouldn’t have happened without you.”

Magnus hummed, the sound a low rumble in his throat. He didn’t believe that: Fortress Maximus was always a capable, astounding Bot, he would have recovered with or without Magnus. Yet, he was leagues beyond grateful to be there with Max, to have witnessed his gradual healing, to stay there as long as Max would let him. 

“You know,” Max said, “you deserve a reward for dealing with me.” He playfully nudged Magnus with an elbow, red optics coy and bright. 

Magnus smiled and took Max’s servo in his own. “You are my reward.”

Max just chuckled. 

“So what will you do now?” Magnus eventually asked. 

There was a long pause. “I haven’t thought about that. All I know for sure is that I’m going to stay here with you until you get bored.”

Magnus knew it was a joke masking an insecurity, and tilted ever so slightly so that his arm brushed Max’s, reassuring. He was perfectly content staying just like that for eternity; forget paperwork, forget duty; forget everything. 

“You’re amazing,” Max whispered. A sneaky servo kneaded Magnus’ thigh, another coming to rest on the small of his back. “Will you celebrate with me?”

“What is your definition of celebration?”

The servo slipping closer to his pelvis was his answer. Fortress Maximus peppered his jaw with kisses. “This time,” he murmured between vents, “I want to hear you moan my name.” He paused his eager servos and backed off enough to meet Magnus’ gaze. “If you are interested,” he added. 

Magnus smiled, soft and genuine, convinced that he would moan right then and there if Max kept it up. “Of course,” he said. “And I will want to return the favor.”

Max attacked his neck again and, as much as he wanted to lean into the touch, he raised his servos and clasped them over Max’s, stilling his eager advances. Red optics met blues and he leaned back.

“Can we not talk for once?” Max grumbled, optics fixed on something over Magnus’ shoulder. 

It was better to talk now than to have another mishap, Magnus thought. Hell, he was practically convincing himself as he spoke. “We need to establish boundaries,” he said. 

Max fixed his jaw, servos going lax in the other’s grip. “You really know how to ruin the mood, don’t you?”

“And panic attacks don’t?” Magnus retorted, the slightest clip to his tone. This was the ship’s second in command speaking now; authoritative in every sense of the word. It made even Magnus flinch when he realized he’d slipped into it. Voice softer, he added, “I don’t want to watch you fade away, Max. Not in the berth, not anywhere else.” He loosened his grip on the other’s tense servos to rub slow circles over the knuckles.

Digits flexing, Fortress Maximus exvented hot air over their entwined servos. “You understand what you’re asking of me, don’t you?”

“If you feel more comfortable waiting, I am not opposed.” Establishing boundaries meant looking backwards to come up with preventive measures. Magnus was, as much as he hated it, asking Max to sift through three years of trauma and find triggers. He thought, if he were able to keep Max grounded and physically comfortable, then doing that this once would be more beneficial than returning to it and the ensuing panic whenever they stumbled upon a new trigger. It wasn’t something he could —or would ever want to— force onto Max. Trauma was to be respected, not toyed with. 

Max cycled in a deep breath and leaned closer to press his forehelm against Magnus’. “Promise you won’t leave,” he whispered. 

“Never,” Magnus breathed before pessimism could tell him to shut up. 

“And there better be some of that engex left for after.”

He snorted, taking the hint to lighten the mood for as long as possible. “If I drank all of that on my own, I’d be glitching, probably seeing Megatron and Rodimus cherubs 24/7.”

Max grinned and nuzzled their helms together. “You really can’t tell a good joke, can you?” 

“I was not  _ built  _ for jokes.”

“Clearly.” Max’s frame creaked as he stood up. He offered a servo to Magnus. “Do you need to refuel?”

Magnus accepted the help and brushed off his backside. “You shouldn’t refuel after 8,” he said. 

“Well I’m low.” He headed for the stairs then paused and glanced over his shoulder. “You coming?”

“We can refuel after. . .” Magnus frowned, trying to figure out how to politely say  _ I’d rather you not fill your tanks only to purge them all over my habsuite. _ He settled with, “it will make your stomach sick.” 

Max grinned, as if reading Magnus’ thoughts. “Lead the way then,  _ sir _ .” 

“Please do not call me that.”

“What if I like it?”

Magnus shot the other mech a side glare. “I have a name for a reason,” he coolly replied.

Max chuckled. “I like that, too.”

Smooth as ever, he slipped an arm around Magnus’ waste, warm servo flat against the arch of his spinal strut. Magnus knew he should scold him, that they were in public, and that couldn’t possibly be interpreted as platonic, but he wanted to let the contentment seep in and distract them from what they were about to throw themselves into. So, he said nothing and let Max touch him as he pleased. 


	24. Chapter 24

Once they got to Ultra Magnus’ room, the tension set in, burrowed into their nerves and under flared plating. Each sat on opposite ends of the berth, not quite sure what the hell they were doing. The lights were on at least, so Magnus could judge Max’s reactions, how he clenched his jaw every few seconds and stared at his servos tucked auspiciously in his lap. There wasn’t yet a shake to his frame, and he didn’t flinch when Magnus reached out to take his servos. 

“Fortress Maximus,” he whispered. “How would you like to begin? And please, remember that if you feel overwhelmed or at any point have had enough, say so and we will stop. Drink more engex than we probably should, and fall asleep together.”

Max turned his helm just enough to offer a small smile. “Can’t wait,” he muttered. “Let’s get this over with.”

Magnus didn’t protest when Max stood and started to pace. He waited patiently for him to speak, his own anxiety bubbling like overheated oil. 

A full body shiver racked Max and he returned to the berth to sit right up against Magnus. “Last night,” he grit, “your fans. . .”

“Would you like me to keep them off at all times?” Magnus asked, wholly sincere. He would risk overheating for Max, without a second thought.

“No, just. . . warn me.”

Magnus’ field brushed, calm and encouraging, against the ball of nerves that was Max. “I will,” he said. He wondered if it was too much, asking this of Max, especially when the poor mech was suppressing tremble after tremble. Maybe the extent of his trauma was more ingrained than he could understand. 

Max leaned heavier against him. “I can’t— Magnus.” A groan whirred through him like the rust plague. 

“I am here, old friend,” Magnus said. He wasted no time running his servos over Max’s curled fists, loosening tense joints and rubbing comforting circles into the palms. “You can stop.” He couldn’t help the anxiety that leaked into his own field, mingling with the strain in Max’s. 

Max lurched forward, dry heaving between a surge of broken, angry sobs. Magnus rubbed his back and tried to make out what he was all but growling. 

“I want to—” he gagged again and swallowed down whatever threatened to come up. “Love—” 

“—be with you—”

Energon splattered, tiny freckles of blue, on the floor.

“—‘m sorry!”

Magnus hushed him and shifted so Max could rest his helm on the shoulder space between his massive pauldrons and his neck. The massive mech sprawled over him, weighing him down until he had no choice but to lay back. Max, fists still clenching and unclenching, covered half of Magnus, one leg between his, and faces close enough to feel each others ventilations. 

“I am sorry,” Ultra Magnus whispered. “I shouldn’t have pushed you.”

Max, optics flickering online, said nothing. He reached across Magnus’ chest to brush a thumb over the autobot badge on his shoulder pauldron. A few more minutes passed, fields mingling, warm frames meshing as both calmed down, before Max spoke. 

“Overlord. . .”

Magnus almost didn’t catch it. Once he did, he whispered, “You don’t have to talk about it, Max.” The other rolled over and sat up. He followed suit, movements slow and cautious. 

“I need to.” His voice was a low rasp, a shell of what it had been just an hour ago. “Rung, Ratchet, they only know what they can observe.”

The pang in his spark wasn’t unexpected, but it was more powerful than Magnus was expecting. He clenched his jaw and reset his vocalizer. 

“But if we. . . I trust you, Ultra Magnus.” Max inclined his helm. “I want you to know everything.”

“Maxi—”

“Overlord used me, Magnus, and I’m terrified that will happen again. . .”

The hours passed, and Fortress Maximus shouldered on, pouring three years’ worth of shit into his lap. It was overwhelming; the rage, the sympathy, the clawing at his throat when Max started to shake. Magnus held him close, shivered with him, grated his dentae with him, rumbled with fury with him: They were one form on the berth, each offering a shoulder to lean on when it became too much. After Max fell silent, they stayed entwined.

Magnus, hearing screams in the silence, unwound an arm from Max’s waist to activate the music player on his bedside table. A baritone voice sang in a rolling tongue, string instruments providing a soft tenor background. He focused on the song as his servos moved absentmindedly over Max’s frame. 

“What language is that?” Max whispered after an hour or so. They’d cycled through the disc once already. His breath was hot on Magnus’ jaw, voice sluggish. 

“French.”

Max hummed. “It’s nice.” He propped himself up on his elbows, chassis grazing Magnus’ raised chevron. “I’m going soft, aren’t I?” he asked, optics holding a boatload of exhaustion and a glimmer of humor. 

“No, you aren’t.” Magnus stared up at him, lost in admiration. 

He chuckled and leaned closer. “But I am. Almost admitted that I love you.”

Faceplates burning, Ultra Magnus tried not to look shocked, or scared, and prayed that Max couldn’t hear his spark thrumming wildly against its cage, scar throbbing. Before he could formulate a response, Max caught his lips with a quick kiss. 

Practically blubbering, Magnus said, “I take it you feel. . .”

“Tired.” He gave a droopy smile and layed back down in the crook between Magnus’ arm and side. “Safe.”

How odd to have a mech larger than himself lay like that, Magnus thought. Even though the lights were still on, Max all but crashed into recharge. Magnus brushed a thumb over the arc of his cheek, mentally praising every smoothed, tension-less plate of his face. 

“Safe,” he whispered, and Max nuzzled his face deeper into his chest.  _ Safe.  _


	25. Chapter 25

For the first time in, well, as long as Ultra Magnus could remember, he was woken up by his alarms. He shut them off as fast as he could once he figured out they were coming from him, and lifted his helm to smile at a groggy Maximus. 

Max yawned as he sat up. “I could get used to sleeping with you,” he said. 

Magnus wasn’t opposed to the idea, especially when it seemed to do wonders for them both. He was still puzzled by how he didn’t wake up before his alarms. There was rare, and then there was unbelievable. 

“We should refuel,” Max continued, already headed for the door. He waited for Magnus before leading the way into the hall and towards the energon dispensary on the other side of the ship. 

They walked in comfortable silence, neither taking much notice to the snickers of the mechs who saw them come out of the same room, or the muttered rumors that ceased when they stepped into the dispensary. Magnus attained two cubes of energon and returned to the table Max chose. He wasn’t particular to taking his meals in the dispensary, but Max seemed more than happy to do so, even if mechs were pointing and whispering. 

Magnus sipped his energon thoughtfully. He tried not to watch Fortress Maximus as mech after mech came up to their table and bothered them. But Max wasn’t bothered; he had a smile for everyone, and an encouraging spout about his health if any asked. The show was intriguing, but Magnus wondered where the acting ended and the truth took hold. 

One of the last to bound over was Tailgate, wringing his servos and peering up at Max with a bright visor. In the background lurked Cyclonus, a careful optic kept on the small mech. 

Tailgate smiled and couldn’t seem to make up his mind on who to look at. He kept going back and forth as he said, “‘Morning! Hope I’m not bothering you, but, uh. Well, I wanted to be one of the first to congratulate you two.”

Even Max had nothing to say to that. They both stared blankly at the minibot. 

He shifted on his pedes, helm tilting like he was the confused one. “You know,” he said, “with the relationship. . .”

Ultra Magnus dragged his servo down his face to hide the embarrassment, and Max had to reboot his vocalizer before he could respond. 

“I’m sorry, what was your name again?” he asked, ever suave. 

“Oh, uh, Tailgate actually.”

“Well, Tailgate, thank you.”

Magnus nearly choked and tried to hide it by coughing into his servo as Tailgate scurried off, obviously pleased with himself. 

Across the table, Max sent him a coy grin. “Energon down the wrong pipe?”

He couldn’t be angry, only feign it, when it was impossible to look at that smile and not grin. 

Max chuckled at his stubborn silence and swigged down the last of his energon. “Well, is he wrong?”

Magnus checked his chronometer. “Perhaps we should talk about this later,” he said. “My shift starts soon and. . .”

“Good, go work. Rodimus needs you.” The unspoken lingered in the air. . .  _ to clean up his messes _ . 

His whole shift, Magnus’ processor kept slipping back to Fortress Maximus. He wondered what the ex-warden would do to keep busy during the day. Megatron had to call him out on misplaced commas  _ twice _ , for Primus’ sake. As tempting as it was to bolt out the door a few minutes before the end of his shift, like Rodimus, Magnus forced himself to sit through one last engine check report. Even before that could end, he was fielding a call from Max. 

“Still working?” he asked, voice teasing. 

Magnus filed the report away for the next day. “Finishing up now. Is something wrong?”

“Yes.”

He was out of his office in a flash. “Where are you?” he snapped.

Max laughed on the other line. “Outside your room.”

“What?” He changed paths, not slowing down in the slightest. 

“We haven’t celebrated yet.”

Magnus had to pause to let his spark cool down and swallow the yelling gurgling in his throat. 

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” Max said, tone somber. 

“Next time lead with the celebrating.”

“As if you would be any calmer.”


	26. Chapter 26

Excited wasn’t the right word; wary was more like it when he arrived at his suite and Fortress Maximus was leaning against the door, legs crossed and optics dimmed. Could this really happen? Should it? Those tantalizing reds brightened and focused on Magnus. A grin spread Max’s lips.

“How was your day?” he asked once Magnus was in earshot. 

He unlocked the door and pushed it open for Max. What a mundane question, yet he would answer it a thousand times if Max were the one to ask it. “Slow, but I’ve come to crave that over the chaos this ship usually has to offer.” 

Both inside, the door was closed and locked. Max slowly approached Magnus, servos out in question. Magnus, ignoring his inhibitions, took those big blue hands and guided them to his hips. He cupped the side of Max’s face and pulled him into a slow, soft kiss. 

When they parted, Magnus asked, “How exactly should we celebrate?”

Max mouthed a quivering audial. “With your transfluid down my throat,” he purred. It sent a jolt of pleasure straight to Magnus’ spine. But then Max was pulling back, concerned optics squinting. “This isn’t awkward, is it?” he asked. “I— I haven’t done this in a while.”

Of course it was awkward, meeting for planned interfacing with a mech he once revered as a break-neck prison warden. Magnus shoved those thoughts to the side and answered with a kiss, deeper than the last, shivering when Max’s glossa slipped into his mouth.  _ Primus  _ he was heating up fast. A thick white thigh spreading his legs was all it took for his cooling fans to send an urgent request to his HUD. 

Magnus turned his helm just enough to gasp, “My fans!”

“Activate them,” Max rumbled, mouthing the words against Magnus’ neck cables. The ex-warden pressed closer, crimson optics earnest. He held eye contact as he deliberately rubbed his thigh against Magnus’ blue codpiece. 

Although they were prepared, neither mech could help but flinch when the roar of cooling fans filled the room. Magnus leaned his helm against the wall for a moment when he was certain Max would be okay, allowing his systems to regulate themselves and even out, but Max’s relentless movement didn’t help. It was impossible not to lose himself in the whisper-soft touches and the fire they incited. How long had it been since he’d felt lips against his chevron, following the trail of his abdomen and down to—

“Max!” he gasped, hips shaking from the effort of not bucking against the warm intake on the inside of his thigh. He hadn’t even realized his legs were spread that much, but a glance down sent heat straight to his audials. 

Max returned to his mouth, nibbling and suckling. He paused, servos planted firmly on Magnus’ hips. “Something wrong?”

“No, you surprised me is all.” Magnus returned the kiss, humming into it when Max cupped his codpiece. Deft digits traced the outline of the fiery metal hiding his aching spike and furiously clenching valve. It’d been centuries since Magnus was so damn worked up, and he couldn’t have been happier that it was all Fortress Maximus’ doing. All  _ for  _ him.

With a coy grin, Max knelt back down, massive, powerful blue servos all but wrapping around Magnus’ thighs. He reached around to toy with his aft, digits flexing against the perfect curve. Magnus moaned and Max’s cooling fans kicked up a notch. He hid his face in a red thigh for a moment, as if hiding, but his muffled groan still reached Magnus. He reached down to lovingly caress a trembling finial. 

“Are you okay, Maximus?” he asked. A nod into his leg and a weak squeeze to the aft was all he got. “Max, talk to me.”

“I. . .” the ex-warden leaned back on his calves and cycled a heavy in-vent. 

Magnus couldn’t help but notice the pink flecking the insides of his clenched thighs, a small shimmer leaking from behind closed plating. “Would you like to stop?”

“No.” Max, with Magnus’ help, stood back up. “I couldn’t stop from. . . you sounded so gorgeous,” he muttered, looking away.

“It is nothing to be ashamed of.” Magnus cupped the other’s face in his servos as a sense of pride and adoration welled in him. What an odd gesture, he briefly thought. “Would you like a cleaning cloth?” 

Max shook his helm. “I want to make you happy first.”

“I am happy. You do not need to do anything you don’t feel comfortable with, Max.” He gently tugged the other closer and kissed directly over his spark. “I would be happy just to be in the same room as you, because. . .” The words lodged themselves in his throat. “You mean so much to me, Fortress Maximus.”

Max smiled, optics brightening. “How are you so patient?”

“I have dealt with Rodimus for too long not to be.” Magnus chuckled, although he quickly realized he wasn’t a very big fan of talking about his captain during intimate encounters. 

A tantalizing white thigh returned between his legs. “Will you open for me?” Max husked. 

It was a relief to let his spike pressurize completely, and Magnus groaned. He just barely caught the way Max faltered at the sight of it. But the mech wasn’t distracted for long and pressed closer, chassis scraping chassis, digits teasing hidden nerve clusters and turning Magnus into a puddle of himself. If Max’s leg wasn’t between his, there would be a literal puddle on the floor. 

Max smiled against his jaw. “You’re quivering,” he rumbled. He shifted his leg just enough for it to slide against the plush lips of Magnus’ valve. 

Magnus gasped with the sudden friction, and in a split second of desperation, he ground against the sturdy, pink-smeared thigh. His servos gripped Max’s shoulders, and he rocked again, tilting his hips so his exterior node was rubbed. He opened his mouth to gasp, but Max fit their mouths together and all he could do was breathe him in. 

Pleasure coiled like a tightly wound coil in the pit of Magnus’ tanks, and it was all he could do to hold tight to Max and sloppily work his mouth when the damned mech started using his leg. It might not have been intentional, but when Max started to rut against Magnus’ thigh, grinding a burning hot codpiece into the sensitive metal, his leg shifted with every slow grind. 

“Max,” he keened, thrusting against white metal that, to his valve’s displeasure, refused to penetrate. 

Max’s engine rumbled and he thrust harder, their pelvises and thighs swapping paint as his servos left dents on Magnus’ hips. “Primus,” he groaned, bowing his helm so it bumped against the other’s, “you are so damn gorgeous.”

Magnus’ processor was unfurling, and it was all he could manage to pant a noncommittal sound. He was too lost in the fiery pleasure to be embarrassed about how easily he was coming undone. And then there was a servo between his legs, a digit slipping past the folds and scraping against a set of internal nodes, and that was all it took. 

He ground down on that blessed digit, valve clenching maddeningly as the rest of his frame shook with indescribable tension and pleasure. Spike twitching, his hips bucked as he released a mess of transfluid that splattered on both their chassis. He swallowed Max’s eager kisses, moaning into them, as he went rigid and thrust feebly against Magnus. 

“Ah—” he gasped and buried his face in the crook of the other’s neck. “So—mmm—so warm,” he whispered, running his digits down the curve of Magnus’ spine.


	27. Chapter 27

Ultra Magnus ran his digits over the arch of Max’s helm and pulled him into a sweet, slow, calming kiss. “How do you feel?” he asked once they parted. 

“Good.” Max kissed him again, short and sweet. “Real good.” He ran a servo through the mess between them and grinned. “You?”

“Do you even have to ask?” Magnus smiled, loopy and content, warm and tingly as they untangled. Without Max holding him up, he sagged against the wall, all too aware of the sticky mess slicking his thighs and drying on his middle. He glanced at his partner, in a similar state, transfluid leaking from behind closed panels, and pushed off the wall. Thankfully, Max was there to steady him. They moved to sit on the edge of the berth. Max fidgeted next to him, a reminder of whispered boundaries. 

Magnus said, “You may use my private wash racks.”

“What about you?”

He smiled. “I am more than willing to wait. Besides, it will give me time to clean the room.” They had, after all, left quite the muck. Max nodded appreciatively and disappeared into the bathroom. 

()

When Magnus stepped out of the washracks, refreshed and sparkling, he had to take a moment to appreciate that Fortress Maximus was laying in his berth, waiting patiently for him. If he were any more listless, he’d have thought it was a dream. The dimmed lights, the slow flash of enticing red optics, a mech —his mech— keeping the berth warm. 

“You going to stand there all night?” Max asked, propping himself up on one arm. He answered by taking up the empty space on the berth. Max pulled him closer by his hips. “That’s better,” he rumbled.

Magnus rested his helm on Max’s outstretched arm and wrapped one of his own around the other’s waist. His other arm he kept pinned between their chassis, servo directly over Max’s spark. It flooded him, the warmth, the blanket of comforting EM fields, and he wanted to speak, but how could he put any of that into words? So he nuzzled his helm against Max’s jaw, ignoring the voice in the back of his helm calling him weak, emasculate. Max let out a low churr, resonating from deep in his chest, and kissed Magnus’ finial, as if soothing away the thoughts he couldn’t possibly know. 

If it weren’t for Max shaking him awake, Magnus would have slept through his alarms. Again. They parted ways faster than the previous day, Magnus off to the deck and Max to his session with Rung. There was plenty of work to be done in the office, and the day passed in a blurr. Megatron checked in a handful of times to pick up reports, Rodimus got bored and came looking for entertainment, Swerve was brought in for reprimanding (something about health code violations) which was a bitch, and in between, Magnus was hunched over his desk, typing and reading furiously. 

It wasn’t until his mid-day break that he allowed himself a minute to breathe. He debated calling Max; that was something couples did, right? Were they a couple? Magnus ran a servo down his faceplates and pushed back from his desk, chair rolling with a groan. A box in the corner of his optic caught his attention. Guilt and anger bubbled in him when he realized it was the datapads and threats that he’d forgotten since the week they appeared. Although no one acted on the threats, it was no consolation. Magnus was supposed to enforce laws, rules, keep bots safe, but he was so caught up in his own maelstrom of emotions that he let Max’s safety slip through his digits. 

The box was heavier than he remembered, the datapads filthier, their messages more vindictive. And yet, he laid every last one out on his desk, in order, and spent the rest of his shift obsessing over them. The datapads themselves were old, most likely recycled, but so was every other pad on the Lost Light. Anyone could get ahold of one, program it to show a specific message and embed audio and video. He took notes on dialect, specific grammatical choices, practically fantasizing that they would offer him some sort of clue. There was little else he could do, so he started listening to all the interviews he’d recorded the first time around. Again, nothing. He couldn’t assume guilt when he had nothing to go off of but the lapse between the words of a drunk bot. That was less than substantial, and Ultra Magnus knew it. 

He spent hours pouring over the case, if you could call it that. Even after he’d reorganized and filed his new notes away, his processor was mulling over what little he knew. To try and get his mind off of it, he called Fortress Maximus on the walk back to his hab suite. 

“Magnus?” His voice sounded groggy, speech slower than usual. As if he’d just woken up.

“Are you okay, Maximus?” Magnus asked. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m good. Where are you?”

“I just left the office. I thought. . .” Was he being too clingy? 

Max coughed on the other end. “Can I come over?”

“Of course.”

“Okay, I‘ll be there in a few minutes.”

The line went dead and Magnus frowned to himself. He walked faster than usual, reaching his room right before Max. Magnus waited for him before going into his suite. He stifled a yawn and turned to the other, noticing for the first time the claw marks raking the insides of his arms. 

“What happened?” he asked as he took Max’s servos and turned them over, checking for more marks, a pit rolling in the bottom of his tanks. There wasn’t any energon, fresh or dried, which was a small relief. But all that meant was the wounds had been cleaned. “What did you do?” As soft and calm as he tried to sound, the panic was clear. 

Max tugged his arms away. “Can we just sleep? It’s been a long day.”

“No.” Magnus pulled him back. “Please, talk to me, Maximus.” The silence that hung over them was thick, practically impenetrable, and he hated it. He hoped that Max could see the concern in his optics, feel the worry in his field, and waited for a response other than a clenched jaw. Too much time passed. Magnus hugged the other, relieved to feel it reciprocated. They parted and he sighed, forced a pained smile. “Okay. Let’s recharge.”

Ultra Magnus didn’t sleep much that night. Rather, he stared at the ceiling, mulling over what he knew and didn’t know. What could be done and what couldn’t. Even Max was restless, but a gentle touch to the helm or the back and he was calm again. At least Magnus could do that much. Touch, the only consolation he’d been able to offer from the beginning. Was that all he would  _ ever  _ have for Fortress Maximus?


	28. Chapter 28

There was nothing new, and yet this was the fifth time Magnus was going through the files and what meager facts he’d amassed. He wasn’t entirely sure if it was guilt or rage rusting his patience and renowned steely demeanor. All he knew was that he yelled at Rodimus —about something arbitrary— and Megatron caught a left hook to the jaw. It was still a blur, the shouting, his forced leave of absence (which Rodimus claimed would only last a day or two), but Magnus had managed to snag everything he needed for Max’s hate crime case before being escorted out. Him, escorted out of his own damn office by the ex leader of the Decepticons and an ex-Con himself. If Tyrest could see him now. . . Magnus used the shame to fuel his investigative fervor. Not that it helped. 

Ultra Magnus’ desk was cluttered with datapads, loose leaves of paper, law books, anything he deemed remotely useful, and his nose was rightfully buried in the chaos. And, with his nerves as fried as they were from lack of sleep and stress, it was no surprise when he nearly jumped out of his chair when someone knocked on the suite’s door. He tried to collect himself, at least pretend to calm down, before he opened the door, but of course it was Fortress Maximus. 

He saw right through Magnus. “What’s wrong?” Big red optics checked him over for physical injury before scanning the room and landing on the desk. “Did I interrupt you?”

Magnus let Max in and closed the door. “I was working on a. . .” He started to tidy up and hide things in drawers. “Old files is all. Overdue reports.”

“Right.” Max pressed against him from behind, servos reaching around him to still his scrambling ones. Vents warm on Magnus’ neck, he asked, “Why aren’t you on the deck?”

“How did you know I wasn’t there?” Magnus countered, nonetheless complying when Max’s warm blue servos turning him around. 

“A little bird told me.”

“Starts with R, ends with -mus?”

Max chuckled. “No. Good guess though.” He gave a lopsided grin and a quick kiss on the lips. “Enough work. Time to relax.”

“What do you suggest?” Magnus pressed a little closer, trying to hide the stiffness in his frame by wrapping his arms around the other’s waste. 

“You were on Earth for a while: Humans go to the theater and call it a date, don’t they?”

He liked where this was going. “It was common, yes.” A good nature documentary, engex, and a strong frame next to him? If there was anything that would get him to relax, that’d be it. 

“Well,” Max lowered his voice a pitch and it sent a shiver straight through Magnus, “would you like to join me on a date?”

“Of course,” he whispered. 

Max grinned. “Good. While we wait, why don’t you tell me all about these overdue reports you are trying to hide from me?”

The last thing Ultra Magnus wanted to do was lie, so he rested a servo on Max’s arm and tried for a half-truth. “I would hate to ruin our night with the. . . obscenities.” He struggled through a small smile. Of course that wasn’t good enough. An ex-warden always saw right through the bullshit. Max arched an optic ridge and didn’t try to hide his frown, so Magnus gave it another go. “I don’t want to focus on work right now,” he said. “Megatron will understand if I take off early.”

“After what happened on the deck,” Max scowled, “I’m sure he will.”

The quiet started to fill in the gaps of their armor and tension riddled them both, for known and unknown reasons. Unknown reasons being all the more terrifying. And then, when it burst, it was Max who was clearing his throat, taking a step back. 

“The movie doesn’t start for another hour. . .” he said, followed by a wink.

Magnus allowed himself to relax just enough to grin and press a chaste kiss to the other’s parted lips. “Your flirting is wasted on me.”

He snagged another kiss. “But you love it.”

“But I love it,” Magnus admitted. Deep in his spark there was a slow vibration, not rattling his chassis, but the hushed purr of something ancient and buried. It raised the words to his mind that he was oh so close to releasing them from the roof of his mouth. But he stopped, swallowed them back down: In the past, he claimed it served as a reminder, a warning. Now, with Fortress Maximus’ shimmering, lively optics on him as they kissed again, there was no denying that the only reason he clutched tight to those damned words was fear. Deep seeded like the scar disfiguring his spark, except this he could let go of.  _ This  _ he could heal. Or perhaps Max was the one doing the healing. 

After a content hour of reading and —dare Ultra Magnus say it— cuddling, they departed. The halls were busier than usual and it left him on edge, but Max was beaming, soaking up the most insignificant of interactions. Like when Ratchet and Red Alert passed by and each mumbled some half-assed mid-conversation greeting, or when Mainframe gave the slightest nod of his helm, or when Landmine tossed an awfully suggestive grin their way. Magnus wasn’t quite sure how to quell the violent wave of pride crashing through him. How long ago was he pacing, waiting to hear if Swerve made the shot? Right now, he was grateful that the metallurgist missed and Rung survived as well. They had enough damn tragedy on the Lost Light. 

Once they were in a hall with a few less mechs, Magnus asked, “Where exactly are we going?”

“To Swerve’s hab suite.”

He tried not to falter or let the displeasure show on his face.

Max walked a little closer, arm brushing his. “Oh, come on. I heard he was hosting a movie night and I thought we could enjoy ourselves, even in the company of other mechs.”

They hadn’t talked about this, not that they necessarily had to, but Magnus couldn’t help the confusing swirl of desire and uncertainty. “What is the film about?” he forced out.

Max stopped and turned, brow furrowed but still so enticingly gentle. They were only a block or so away from the place; Swerve’s voice echoed off the walls. “If you aren’t comfortable wi—”

“No, I want you to experience this,” Magnus said. And even though he didn’t know where the words were coming from, they were genuine and they were his. “With your upcoming release, it is important you have these mundane interactions with other mechs. And I want to be there to experience all of it with you.”

Max smiled. “Thank you.” And then they were off again, walking much closer than before. 

When they knocked on Swerve’s door, Rewind let them in. He practically glitched and had to reboot his vocalizer. “Hi, hello, Ultra Magnus and Fortress Maximus.” He spoke exceedingly loud for such a small mech, as if announcing their presence to whoever was already there. “Come on in,” he said. “Swerve’s just about to start the movie. There’s some engex and energon treats if you want.”

Max lead the way, greeting the handful of mechs situated on the floor, on cushions and chairs set out. They took a seat in the back, but had to move a couple of times so neither of them was blocking the projector. Swerve bound around, overjoyed at the fact that the one and only Ultra Magnus was in his suite, sitting on his chairs: Magnus heard him not-whisper exactly that to a serenely nodding Skids. Rewind was settled down in Chromedome’s lap and Tailgate was curled into Cyclonus’ side on a ragged couch. Even Whirl was docile, leaning back in his chair and pinching his pincers, eyeing them thoughtfully. 

The pull-down screen flashed with static that quickly cleared away (after some cursing and tinkering on Swerve’s part) to reveal video of a statue holding a torch; it looked more human than anything. Swerve scrambled to stand in front of the screen and opened his arms. 

“I present to you, Titanic! Enjoy! Oh, and thanks for coming.” He bowed for dramatic effect and plopped down on a pile of pillows right in the front as the screen showed a black and white clip, a docking station of sorts. 

Magnus tried to settle into his chair like Max was, arm draped over the back of the empty chair to his left and slouching, legs spread in front of him. It looked comfortable, but also horrible for his posture. So he opted for his typical stance; back straight, servos in his lap, legs closed, and he poured his focus into the film. Of course, during the eleventh scene of the movie when Jack and Rose started dancing wildly and frustratingly carelessly with the ship’s crew, Max reached over and rested his servo on Magnus’ thigh. It was a light touch, but he unfolded under it, legs shifting to bump against Max’s and servos finding his. 

Holding servos and brushing thighs in public would not have made any other mech a nervous mess, but Magnus hid his apprehension and let the warmth of Max’s frame calm him down. Even when Whirl glanced back and started snickering, he refused to let go. More time passed, although Magnus was barely aware of it he was so invested in the story. He bit the inside of his cheek when the ship started to sink and held tighter to Max when Rose and Jack were together in the water. 

Swerve was sobbing, Whirl was cursing Rose, and Ultra Magnus felt both their reactions deep in his spark. Rose should have held on, she could have, but it was ultimately Jack’s decision to stay in the water. They both could have fit on that damned piece of wood, but. . .

Fortress Maximus leaned closer, servo still clasped around Magnus’. “I would never let you go,” he whispered. 

But what if he had to? What if there wasn’t enough room for them, what if only one could make it to safety? Magnus rubbed his optics with the back of his free servo and sighed. Swerve let the end credits roll as everyone gathered their trash and headed out. Max insisted they stay to make sure there wasn’t an end credit scene, and that left them, Swerve, and Skids. Magnus was just grateful Tailgate didn’t stick around; the minibot was all too eager to make assumptions that Max loved to go along with. Not that Magnus wanted to correct the tiny mech. 

Once Max was convinced the movie was over and he wasn’t going to miss anything extra, he and Ultra Magnus left Skids and Swerve to themselves. In the hall, they stretched stiff limbs and chatted a few minutes with Whirl, who’d just so happened to be standing right outside Swerve’s door; certainly not waiting for them. 

It was a dull conversation to say the least, and for once Magnus wasn’t worried about how Whirl might instigate something. He was only half paying attention and still mulling over the movie’s ending, but his audials picked up his name and he tried to focus again. 

Whirl was gesturing towards him, a suspicious gleam to his optic. “--doesn’t give you any trouble?” he was saying.

Max just laughed, low and hearty, and shook his helm. 

“Hey,” Whirl said, shrugging, “you never know.”

“Why would you care?” Magnus butt in, immediately scolding himself for not holding his tongue. 

The mono-opticed mech squinted and tilted his helm. “Ole Max here, he gets me, blue.” He tapped the side of his helm with a claw. “My compadre.”

Max slapped the ex-wrecker on the back and laughed again. “Goodnight, Whirl,” he said. Digits hooking on the edge of Magnus’ hip plating, he practically dragged the other down the hall and away from a now whistling helicopter. Ultra Magnus was confused, to say the least, but he always felt that way when Whirl opened his mouth. He could be profound and intelligent, but only if you understood what he was saying. So, Magnus let Max lead him back to his room. Although, at that point it was really their room, wasn’t it?


	29. Chapter 29

Ultra Magnus was starting to worry. Or maybe not worry, but fret. What did it mean of his commitment to Max and their relationship if he was unable to do his job; unable to protect him? In his optics, it rendered him inadequate and incapable. Partially unwittingly, this is how he spent his next two shifts. Dredging through his own mind and through the meager information he amassed over the last few days. And then, much to his own displeasure, he would get distracted and start thinking about Max’s release. Max swore up and down that he was doing well on his own, but the closer the end of the week got, the more anxious he became. He fidgeted when they lay in bed, and his optics glazed over more than once in the middle of conversations. Although he wasn’t missing anything particularly important, the smallest signs sent an itch of urgency to Magnus’ mind. 

Fort Max wasn’t talking as much, either. He reserved himself to small physical gestures, a touch on the arm, the tilt of his helm, and it was odd to say the least. Magnus struggled to fill in the gaps of their conversations. He fell short every time. The previous day, he even braved flirting. Again, a horrible disappointment that elicited nothing but a grin from Max. Where was that gorgeous, roaring laughter and the coy jesting?

Magnus tapped his digits on his desk, thinking. He wasn’t losing Max again, was he? After all the improvement they made. . . He had to do something, but what? As much as it twisted his tanks, Magnus decided to go to Rodimus for advice. Who else was he supposed to talk to about this? There were the obvious choices, Tailgate and Cyclonus, neither of whom were very high on his approval list, and Rewind and Chromedome, but they always seemed so happy. Logically, he knew that no relationship was perfect, but if there was anyone on that damned ship who knew him at least a little better than anyone else, Rodimus seemed to be the best candidate. Besides, he was young, ambitious; Magnus didn’t doubt he’d experienced his fair share of relationships. 

He waited to catch Rodimus near the end of their shift, and he was all too happy to talk. The flamed mech strut back into his office and plopped down atop his desk. “What’s on your mind, big guy?” he asked. 

Magnus suppressed a pained eye roll and closed the door. He took a seat before his captain, hands folded in his lap to keep from fidgeting. “I need your advice, Rodimus.”

“Mhm.” He leaned in, elbows on his knees. “Relationship troubles?” When all he got was a glare, he added, “What? Word gets around fast and Tailgate swears on his spark that Max —and I quote— “totally confirmed him and Magnus are a thing.” Gotta say, I’m happy for you, I really am.”

Was a thank you in order? Magnus cleared his throat. “Yes, well, I want to. . .” What  _ did  _ he want to do? “I want to show Ma— Fortress Maximus that I. . . appreciate him.”

“You mean love?”

Yes. And no. Love was such a vindictive word, wasn’t it? There was hardly any room for trauma in “love.” Magnus did not seek out Rodimus for a spark-to-spark, so he kept his qualms to himself. “What do I do?” he asked. 

Rodimus squinted, analyzing for a moment. “Why are you asking me? Not that I’m against it, but this seems like a Chromedome area of expertise.”

“I considered it, but I am here.”

“Uh-huh. Well if you want to make Max feel  _ appreciated _ , do something that’s unique to you guys, like your relationship. If you want to call it that.”

What did they have that was unique? 

“Or you could go the cheesy route. Fancy picnic, private movie night,” he ticked them off on his digits, “write love letters —sorry, I meant appreciation letters—, sing to him, write poems, drink together (but don’t take him to Swerve’s), massages.” He paused, eyebrows arching. “I could keep going if you want.”

Magnus shook his helm. “No, no that’s fine.” And absolutely not helpful in any capacity. “I should go,” he muttered. “Thank you.”

“Any time,” Rodimus said. 

Magnus was all but to his room when the first call came in. He answered, but it was pure static and quiet; he stopped in the middle of the hall to focus better and could just barely make out a slight hush in the background. When he spoke, there was no response. The line was cut, leaving Magnus’ tanks unsettled and his spark weary. Half-aware of his hastened pace, he headed towards Max’s room. Just to make sure. There was no caller ID on the signal, not the first time or the second. With the second call, Magnus could make out the low clang of a fist against armor. High and reverberating, it almost covered a groaned burst of speech.

Ultra Magnus sprinted the rest of the way to Max’s room. His digits fumbled entering the passcode, and he fought the urge to rip the door off its hinges when it opened so damn slow. Inside, he flicked the lights on and stood over a writhing Fortress Maximus. He was curled towards the wall and didn’t look up when Magnus came in. 

Energon. The second Magnus acknowledged the pink and blue mess smearing the berth beneath Max, he was moving, motions as frantic as the pounding of his spark. 

“Max!” he cried. All but lunging, he rolled the twitching mech over. 

Max’s optics were off and his mouth twisted into a gruesome, energon streaked grimace. His fists were balled and slowly beating against his chassis, which at that point looked more like a piece of scrap metal and cracked plaster than armor. Magnus wrestled his servos away from his bleeding chassis, shaking him all the while. He sent an emergency ping to Ratchet, but everything else was a blur. Shouting ringed dull in Magnus’ audials, but it didn’t register that it was his until Max’s optics were cycling on, terrified and wild. He thrashed under Magnus, punching anything he could reach, his movements sloppy and frenzied. 

Ultra Magnus scrambled to get off Max, and when he crashed to the floor, the other calmed down considerably. Max let his legs hang over the berth, servos planted flat on either side of him, and stared down at Magnus with empty optics. 

“Max? Max, talk to me,” Magnus begged, on his knees now. “What happened?”

His partner blinked slow, that ugly grimace still plastering his faceplates. The door was unlocked and opened and Ratchet rushed in. “What’s going on?” he demanded, immediately honing in on Max’s bloody frame. Although he seemed to notice something Magnus hadn’t. “Ultra Magnus, get out,” he said. 

“You can’t be ser—”

Ratchet blocked Max from view and snapped, “Now!” Magnus waited a second longer and he had to dodge a fist. “I said out!”

Rung showed up and he, too, was ordered out. Magnus barely acknowledged the mech’s presence as he paced the hall, jaw groaning under the force of clenched dentae. Why were they going downhill  _ now _ ? After everything. . . although had they even defeated that much? If anything, what did they truly overcome? If Magnus were a religious mech, he would be cursing Primus, hell, none of the gods would be spared. Fear manifested into rage, and his pacing turned to stalking. He mulled over what he would do to the mech behind Max’s threats, lost himself in the gore of it, the satisfaction of crushing—

“Ultra Magnus,” Rung interrupted. “You are tracking. . . go wash.”

He whirled on the psychoanalyst, optics wild. “I am not going anywhere!” he roared.

Rung didn’t bat an optic, just set his jaw and snapped, “You are covered in Max’s energon, Magnus.”

Horror seeped into his veins when he looked down. Energon was smeared over his thighs where he’d wiped his soaked servos, his chassis was in a similar state, and with a sickening note of defeat, he recognized the cold stick of energon on his faceplates. How many times had he pinched the bridge of his nose, rubbed at his optics, covered in. . . 

Ultra Magnus had never been a squeamish mech, but nothing could stop him from purging his tanks. He dropped to his hands and knees, wracked with coughs that turned into gags and dry heaving. Rung rubbed his back when it arched and he purged again, reduced to a vomiting mound of metal in the hall outside his backsliding partner’s hab suite. 


	30. Chapter 30

Someone cleaned up Magnus’ mess while he was in the public washracks, where he purged some more. At least Cyclonus, the only mech there, pretended like he didn’t watch Magnus wash his tank’s contents and someone else’s energon down the drain. Fortress Maximus had also been moved to the medibay, although Rung still waited outside his room. 

“Magnus. . .” he started, then seemed to think better of it. He stood and lead the way down the hall. 

They walked silently, and Rung had to manage his pace to make sure he didn’t get too far ahead of Magnus. The Magnus who felt like he’d been trampled by a titan and tossed into an incinerator, who struggled to find the energy or hope to keep moving. It was pathetic, so much so that every mech they passed in the halls avoided optic contact, even pretended like they hadn’t seen him. 

He didn’t bother to ask why Rung had lead him to his office instead of the medibay. Rather, he took a seat in the same oversized couch he once sat in with Max. Their first touch session. Shit. Helm in his servos, Magnus fought back fresh bile. What was wrong with him?

Good-intentioned Rung set a cube of energon on the coffee table between them. “You should refuel,” he said, voice soft. 

Magnus picked the cube up and didn’t drink, but it felt good to have something solid to hold onto. He wished it was Max’s servos. 

“Magnus,” Rung started, “Ratchet assured me that he will be okay. His wounds are not fatal.”

He knew it was supposed to be consoling, but the news only made his tanks twist. “I thought. . . Will he ever live without this?” he asked. 

The smaller mech sighed and adjusted his glasses. “You sound impatient.”

“I am!” Magnus leaned forward, back aching. “He doesn’t deserve to live like this, constantly looking over his shoulder for a trigger or the next attack! So of course I’m impatient, for him; I want to see him  _ healed _ , Rung, regardless of whether or not that’s logical.”

“The spark is hardly ever logical, Magnus.” Rung offered a small smile. “Do you know what Max tells me during our sessions?”

Magnus shook his helm. It was something he was willing to let Max keep private. 

“When I first started to meet with him, he was standoffish, aggressive, always tense, and he never wanted to tell me anything. Not how he felt, how he slept; nothing. But, these last few weeks he has opened up exponentially. It is one thing for him to be able to talk about his nightmares frankly, and it’s another for him to take an hour to tell me about how  _ you  _ stop the nightmares. How your presence, although it used to intimidate him, is now a balm for his anxiety. You should see the way his optics light up when he talks about you, Magnus. If he could, he would never leave your side. Not for one second.”

Magnus opened his mouth but nothing came out. He tried again. “I love him, Rung.” If it were anyone else he wouldn’t have kept talking. “And that terrifies me.”

“As your friend, may I ask why?”

“What if I can’t. . .” Magnus cleared his throat. “What if I let him down?” 

Rung tilted his helm just a fraction. “Do you believe that you’ve let partners down in the past?” His silence was answer enough for Rung. “Fortress Maximus is not the same mech as those of your past, Magnus. And your relationship is its own, not a mock or a rerun of another. I would hope you could recognize that and understand that, although you were affected by your relationships in the past, they do not define you or your ability to love.”

Ultra Magnus ran a servo over the curve of his helm. Love. His tanks twisted and he dry heaved again. Rung was quick to offer a bucket and rag, more for the tears than for any bile. When was the last time he’d cried? The liquid burned, but Magnus wasn’t sure if it was from terror and rage or rusted tear ducts. He swiped at his optics hard enough to see spots and tried to compose himself again.

Clearing his throat felt like swallowing razor blades and acid, and speaking was no better, but he rasped, “The evaluation. . .”

Rung’s expression softened, borderline pitying, but he hid it just as fast as it came. “The last week, Maximus performed very well on his own. There were instances in which he struggled, yes, but that is something he will have to live with, whether or not he is formally released. It would be foolish to believe otherwise.”

Magnus shook his helm. “The scratches,” he muttered, more to himself than to Rung.

“He panicked the first day, those were the. . . product. It was not the first instance where he exhibited an inclination towards self-mutilation.”

“I didn’t know. . .”

Rung adjusted his glasses. “No, but you provided desperately needed comfort and didn’t ostracize Max for his actions. That is more precious than any analysis or therapy. And I have no doubt that your involvement in his life has exponentially helped mend his psyche.”

But what happened next? Clearly, he wasn’t enough, or Max wouldn’t be locked in the medibay getting whatever medical procedures done to him. His spark ached at the thought of Max strapped to an examination table and prayed that he was either lucid or anesthetized. 

“Magnus, did you hear me?” Rung frowned and Magnus wasn’t sure when he’d started talking again. He stared blankly. “I asked how you knew something was wrong.”

If possible, it felt like he was sinking deeper into the couch. “I received a call. Two, actually. But. . .” he scratched the underbelly of his wrist, thinking, “the caller ID wasn’t Max’s. And he didn’t speak, I just heard him gasp something incoherent.”

“And you could tell it was him?”

“Yes.”

Rung tapped his chin. He grabbed a datapad from the coffee table and powered it on. “The identification code, was it N9ASV2VW?”

Magnus checked his call log and nodded. 

“That was Max’s last communication code.” He set the datapad aside. “He requested to have it changed when he arrived on the Lost Light because he insisted that Overlord was trying to contact him. That number was also the same one he used for three years to signal for help while trapped on Garrus 9. None of the calls got out, but it was all he had.”

“Then why did he use it today?” Magnus asked. “If it were a dead code—”

“But it wasn’t.” Rung folded and unfolded his spindly legs. “If you used the same code three years, every day, that becomes ingrained in your mind. Max had it changed, but the outgoing line wasn’t cut; if he knew the exact string of letters and numbers, he would be able to send a call, but not receive any.”

Magnus’ head was starting to hurt. All he wanted to do was curl up on his berth with Max and sleep away the ache in his joints. “He wasn’t lucid when I arrived though. How could he send a call in that state?”

“That I don’t have an answer for,” Rung admitted. “But, even semi-lucid, he was able to recognize that he was in danger and call for help. Because of that, I have decided that this will not affect his coming release.”

“But—”

“No but. Healing is gradual, and trauma doesn’t just disappear. What happened on Garrus9 will forever haunt Max, but he is now able to function around that trauma. He can go to the bar and enjoy himself without the fear that he’ll lose control. He can sleep soundly at night, and when he does have night terrors he can wake up and break free. He can cherish the small moments. Do you have any idea how amazing that is? So yes, Fortress Maximus will be officially released in two days, under the optics of Rodimus Prime, Megatron, myself, and the duly-appointed-enforcer of the Tyrest Accord.” 

Magnus nodded, slow and laborious. “May I ask why the evaluation period is only a week?

“Max has been evaluated every day since he was placed in the brig, Magnus. This has been ongoing for months now, but has only now come to the point where that evaluation can stop and he can live as a free mech, as free as he is in his own mind. And of course—” Rung stopped mid-sentence and tilted his helm to the side to take a call. His brow furrowed and he glanced up at Magnus. “Yes,” he said to whoever was on the other end. “Agreed. Is he awake?” Another pause. Magnus leaned forward to try and listen even though he knew damn well he wouldn’t be able to hear a thing. Rung clenched his tiny jaw. “We will be over soon. Yes, bye.”

“Please tell me he’s okay,” Magnus blurted. “Can I see him?”

Rung removed his glasses and rubbed at his optics before answering. “Yes. Ratchet is worried Maximus will start panicking if he wakes up and you aren’t there, so he’s requested your presence. But. . . are you sure you are capable of such a visit?”

Ultra Magnus was already halfway to the door. He didn’t bother waiting up for Rung; there was no way in Hell he wasn’t going to be there for Max again. He’d already missed so much. . . 


	31. Chapter 31

First Aid was waiting outside the medibay for Magnus. Silent, he turned on his heels when his commander appeared and lead the way inside. “Ratchet wants to see you in his office before you interact with the patient,” the smaller mech explained. 

As much as he itched to barrell his way through the medibay and find Max, Magnus restrained himself and headed for the office. Rung wouldn’t be far off. Ratchet was already waiting, hunched over his cluttered desk, sifting through documents, cursing under his breath. He grunted a sad excuse of a greeting when Magnus came in. Standing by the wall, he waited, pede tapping, for Ratchet to talk, but it wasn’t until Rung was there that he even looked up from his desk. 

Rung took a seat in a creaky chair. Ratchet looked, glared really, between the two of them and rolled his shoulders, servos folding atop a mess of datapads. His optics landed on Magnus. 

“I won’t apologize for kicking you out earlier. It was, and still is, because I needed to make sure you weren’t. . . negatively affecting him.” 

Magnus opened his mouth to object, but the look on Ratchet’s face meant business, more so than usual. This was the look he gave when Tailgate dragged Cyclonus into the medibay after a battle and demanded repairs. Jaw set, brows furrowed, optics squinting and analytical. It was a terrifying expression on a normal day. Now. . .

Ratchet pinched the bridge of his nose. “Ultra Magnus, I need you to prove to me that you had no part in the wounds I treated Fortress Maximus for.”

“I would nev—”

“This isn’t about whether or not I believe you would do something, but in a case like this I need to rule out the worst possibilities.”

Magnus clenched and unclenched his servos to distract from the nausea swamping him. “What do you mean, doctor?”

Rung held up his servo to interject. “Perhaps this conversation should wait.”

“You know damn well it can’t,” Ratchet snapped. “If Max was assaulted—”

“What?” Magnus started pacing. “In what way? He was hitting his chassis when I found him, but. . .”

“There was substantial damage to his chassis, yes, but also to his interfacing equipment. The innermost lining of his valve and the outer rim were both mutilated.”

Magnus grit his dentae to hold back bile. 

“Similarly to the injuries he suffered from Overlord.”

Rung stood. “That’s enough. He didn’t know th—”

“I knew. I knew what Overlord did,” Magnus spat. “And when I found out who did this, they  _ will  _ die.” He didn’t give a single fuck about rules or regulations or what that could mean for his title and his position on the ship anymore. A tiny servo on his arm snapped him out of it. Rung looked up with bright blue optics. “Perhaps now would not be the best time to—”

First Aid popped his head in the door. “He’s waking up, Ratchet.”

“Thanks.” To Magnus, he said, “I can’t sedate him any more, so I suggest we get on over there.”

Ultra Magnus was more than happy to get out of that damned office and see Max, but he hadn’t realized both the medic and the psychoanalyst would be joining him. When he opened the door, Max’s optics flickered on and, blurry as they were, they focused on Magnus, trailing his every motion. He didn’t even acknowledge Ratchet and Rung. 

Magnus stood by the head of the berth, silent, and let Max take his servos and hold them. He was so warm. 

“‘M sorry,” Max rasped. 

Ratchet quietly shushed him as he checked his vitals. “None of this is your fault, kid.”

The sting behind Magnus’ optics was unforgettable, and he bent over to rest his forehelm against Max’s. “I should have been there,” he whispered.

Max had just enough strength to reach over and cup the other’s cheek. “You were,” he said, adding a weak grin. “I was dreaming.”

Magnus stared into his optics, forgetting the doctors analyzing them. Such gorgeous red optics, soft and caring, and strong. Fuck if those were the most generic words Magnus could think of, he didn’t care. They were all perfect. 

“It was a good dream.” Max spoke louder so everyone could hear him. “About you, and I just wanted to feel you. . .” His optics darkened, but he refused to look away from Magnus for more than a nano-click. “I haven’t touched myself, like that, in years. And when I did. . . I tripped something. Couldn’t think about you if I tried, just what. . . what happened to me.”

Out of the corner of his optic, Magnus saw Ratchet step a little closer. “You did this to yourself?”

Max nodded, turning away from his partner at last. 

“Are you sure, because if someon—”

“It was just me. Part of me.”

After roughly an hour of Rung’s questions and Ratchet obsessively checking vitals and wounds, they parted ways. Before he left, Ratchet said that doctor’s orders were bedrest in the medibay for two days, and they’d go from there. And finally, the big bots were alone. Max shifted on the mediberth and patted the open space. 

“Come here,” he rumbled. 

As tempting as it was, Magnus hesitated. “You shouldn’t be moving.”

“I barely moved.”

“Perhaps we should ask Ratche—”

Max rolled his optics. “Just come here.”

The berth was, without a doubt, not made for two mechs of their size. They quickly discovered that sitting side by side wouldn’t work when Max almost fell off and Magnus panicked. Max, of course, was the one to suggest laying atop each other instead, and it took a whole ten minutes to convince Magnus that it wouldn’t mess with any of his stitches or hurt. 

Finally situated, Max resting between Magnus’ legs and back pressed flush against his chassis, they calmed down. Magnus wrapped his arms around the other’s middle and nestled his helm into the crook of his neck. “Thank you,” he whispered.

Max leaned his helm back. “For what?”

“For being okay.”

“Just okay? Not magnificent or absolutely wonderful?” Max quipped.

Magnus let his engine pure, content, not a lick of fear left. “All of the above,” he rumbled.

Max turned his helm to kiss his cheek. “I love you.” When Magnus didn’t respond, just kissed the top of his helm, he added, “And that doesn’t change if you aren’t ready to say it. I know your spark, what you’ve been through. . . I still love you.”

His spark throbbed with the affirmation. “Thank you,” he whispered against Max’s neck. 

Fortress Maximus fell asleep not long after that, curled into Magnus, breaths steady and frame slack, no sign of tension. Magnus stayed awake as long as he could, which didn’t last long when he was being smothered by his partner. When Ratchet came in to check on Max late that night, he didn’t have the heart to kick Magnus out. 


	32. Chapter 32

No matter how many times Fortress Maximus swore that he was all healed and ready to roll, Ratchet refused to let him leave the medibay for an extra three days. He had to be 100% certain that there wasn’t any infection and that the wounds were healing properly, considering that the last time he operated down there, he essentially had to reconstruct Max’s entire array. Ultra Magnus was always moved by Ratchet’s fierce passion. He was rough on the outside, but deep down he cared too much. 

On the last day of Max’s forced stay in the medibay, Rodimus organized (an extremely loose term in this context) the proceedings for his release from the brig’s registry. It was cramped, to say the least, with Megatron, Magnus, Rung, and Rodimus standing around Max’s medical berth, but they made do. The proper documents for release were laid out on a bedside tray. Magnus proudly read the conditions aloud, being that no further acts of violence against crew members would be tolerated, and continued visits with the ship’s psychoanalyst were required. Max, sitting up as much as he could in that damned bed, agreed to the terms and signed his name on all the documents. Magnus did the same, and Megatron and Rodimus signed after, Megatron acting predominantly as a witness. 

And then Rodimus was clapping Magnus on the back and grinning like a mad man. “So,” he said, “should I have some guys move Max’s stuff into your room or what?”

Megatron snorted, muttered something to Max, and left. Rung followed shortly after, leaving Magnus to glance between his captain and his partner, struggling for an answer.

Fortunately Max, although confined to the berth, remembered how to speak. “Yes, that would be great. Thank you, Rodimus.” He grinned deviously at Magnus.

Rodimus nodded vigorously. “Any time!” He paused for an awkward second then took a deep, dramatic breath. “Well, I’ll leave you two love birds alone to celebrate.” He winked and whirled away. 

Max chuckled. “Least he’s helpful,” he said, motioning for Magnus to come closer. 

“I suppose.” Sturdy blue servos gripped his waist and he leaned into the touch. “Are you sure you want to share quarters?” It was an absentminded thought; he hadn’t intended for it to come out. 

“I’m certain. You? We didn’t exactly talk about it.” Max swept his thumbs over the ridges of Magnus’ abdomen. “We don’t have to. If you aren’t comfortab—”

Magnus silenced him with one of his rare gems of a smile and a servo on his shoulder. “I would take you over a quiet suite any day.”

Max cocked an optical ridge. “Oh, am I too loud for you?”

“You know what I mean.” He playfully pinched a helm fin, earning a dignified grumble and a squeeze to the aft. “I spoke to Ratchet.”

“Please don’t talk about Ratchet when we’re flirting,” Max groaned.

“Oh shush,” Magnus laughed. It felt good to laugh. “He said you could drink but —and I quote— ‘If you get too loud and start disturbin’ my other patients, I will personally drag you out of my medibay and break a wrench over your helm.’ So, do you think you can keep quiet for just one more night?”

Max didn’t miss the chance for a coy grin. “I can try,” he said, dropping his voice an extra octave and sending shivers down Magnus’ spine. 

“Good,” Magnus purred back. Ratchet told them earlier to keep it “g-rated” but there was nothing wrong with a little shameless flirting. At least, that’s how Magnus justified it. He pulled their sacred bottle of engex, left over from their last drinking night, out of his subspace with two glasses he scrounged off Swerve. 

“Now that’s a pretty sight,” Max said. He accepted a glass and, with a wry look, added, “Not that you aren’t a nice view.”

“Shut up and drink.”

They clinked glasses and did just that. Max tossed the neon liquid back like he’d taken a bullet to the skull, and Magnus sipped it delicately. 

“You know,” Max said, “there isn’t any other mech in the universe I would rather be spending my time with.” He smiled and lifted his glass. “To you, Ultra Magnus, the only mech that could bring alcohol to a medibay and not get scolded for it.”

Magnus accepted the toast and sipped again, enjoying the buzz of his circuits. “I would cheer you as well, but two consecutive toasts is discomfiting.”

“What are you going to do to make up for that then?” Max’s optics flashed, a more-than-friendly challenge.

Setting his glass aside, Magnus swung one massive leg over the medical berth and knelt, his knees on either side of Max’s thighs. He leaned in close enough to feel Max’s exvents on his chin and tilted his helm ever so slightly to the side. “What would you like me to do?” he asked, voice accompanied by the smooth purr of his engine. 

Max took another hit of the engex, faking disinterest. “Remember, g-rated, sir.”

“I’ve done nothing to warrant that reminder,” Magnus retorted. He ran his servos over the divet in Max’s chassis, digits trailing over the Autobot badge there. Nice and straight.

“You can’t see under closed plating.”

He paused and sat back on his haunches, careful not to let his full weight pin Max’s legs. “Should I stop? If you are reacting. . .”

“You expect me not to? You are stunning and crawling over me like. . .” He took a ragged breath. “You sure as hell are gorgeous.”

“This engex must be more powerful than I thought,” Magnus joked, tone soft. 

Max chuckled and the vibrations reverberated through Magnus’ servos, lively and reassuring. “I’m not drunk, but if I were, it would be because of you, not the liquor.”

Magnus dipped his helm, half-masking his laugh. 

“What?” Max mocked offense and he closed his servos on the other’s aft and hiked him further up his legs so he was stradling grey hips. Caught off guard, Ultra Magnus made an undignified noise and fell forward, landing chassis against chassis, face inches from Max’s. They were both smiling like fools. 

“That was, perhaps, your worst flirt ever,” Magnus said as he tried to push himself up. 

Max, sturdy arm wrapped around his waist, yanked him back down. “You’re no better! Hey, Maximus, there’s dirt in your fender. Hey Maximus, did you break this datapad? Max, that doesn’t go there! At least I  _ try _ .”

Magnus scoffed. “I try! And you  _ did  _ break that datapad.”

Teasing servo trailing his spinal struts, Max said, “Give me one good pick up line or—”

“Or what? You can’t get rid of me,” Magnus rumbled. 

Max’s optics lit up. “Or I get up right now and run laps around the ship. No doubt my wounds would reopen and then, of course, I’d be at a higher risk for infection and. . .”

“But—”

“One, that’s all I’m asking for.”

Magnus thought long and hard, probably too long and too hard. If anything, he over-complicated it, and then he was worrying about overcomplicating, but another glass of engex and he perked up. Propped on his elbows, he avoided optic contact as he tested it out. “Are you my paperwork, because. . .because I want to finish you.”

Naturally, Fort Max burst into hysterics. Magnus joined him for a second before he remembered Ratchet’s warning. The only way to shut Max up was to clamp his mouth over his, distracting him. Magnus kissed harder than he intended, but Max accepted it openly, glossa trailing dentae and oral lubricants making it sloppy. They parted, panting quietly. Max didn’t wipe his mouth, so Magnus cleaned it for him. It was definitely not g-rated, him licking oral lubricants off his lover’s lips, but Primus did it make them heat up. 

“Hmm,” Max hummed. “At least you make up for not being able to flirt.”

Magnus bumped his forehelm against his. “Is that a compliment?”

“It could be.” 

“Stop talking,” Magnus muttered, leaning in for another non-g-rated kiss. 


	33. Chapter 33

Max’s transition from bedrest to free reign of the ship wasn’t as difficult as Ultra Magnus had expected it to be. There were a few hiccups, but everything was washed away when they returned to the same suite and fell asleep in each others’ arms. Max was given a job in the boiler room to keep him busy during the days, and he seemed to be enjoying it. He didn’t have to deal with many mechs, and the work was good and physical; it kept him moving. 

As much as Magnus longed to spend every waking moment with Max, he couldn’t shirk his duties as Second-in-Command. He’d already been scolded for missing work to stay with Max in the medibay and was swamped with reports. Hunched over his desk, nose all but pressed to the screen of the datapad he was working on, he had no idea when his door was opened. He jumped out of his seat when someone stroked his finial. 

Max chuckled and leaned against the desk. “Sitting like that will jack up your posture,” he said, optics coy. 

“Yes, well. . .” Magnus didn’t have a good come back. Seems he never did. “What time is it?”

“Quitting time. I let you work over about an hour.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” Max stretched. “So why don’t you clean up and follow me.”

He was already filing things away in their proper places. “Follow you where?”

“The bar first, and then. . .” He grinned. “Well, we can play it by ear.”

Even if Magnus hadn’t wanted to go out, he would have eagerly followed Max anywhere. Hell, right off the edge of the universe if that’s where he was headed. And so they ended up in Swerve’s bar, joined by a handful of familiar faces, and “playing it by ear,” so to speak. 

Ultra Magnus glanced up from his spritzer, instantly mesmerized by the soft glow of the lights smoothing Fortress Maximus’s sharp edges. He swirled his drink, staring across the bar as Max ordered another round for the table. Drift and Rodimus chatted idly, and Ratchet and Megatron drank in quiet. It wasn’t too busy, which Magnus thought was nice, and the music was at just the right level to send the base directly into his spark. The low thrum settled peacefully in his chassis. 

Max returned and distributed the new drinks. Magnus was amazed by the steadiness in his servos. How did he seem so frail some nights, and then others. . .

“So,” Ratchet said, a suspicious glint to his optics, “how are the new living arrangements suiting you, Max?”

Magnus took a slow sip from his drink, trying to hide his contentment. It was difficult, keeping the space between him and Max, but he lavished every second he got within ten strides of the mech.

Max settled into his seat across from Magnus. He shot Ratchet a charming grin. “Best I’ve had in a long time.”

“Good, good.”

Rodimus perked up at the end of the table and leaned forward, almost knocking Drift’s drink out of his servos. His face was tinted from the liquor, and he was animated as ever. “Hey, let’s let loose and play a drinking game!” he chimed. At the collective groan of the table, he added, “Whoever wins—”

“Against Fortress Maximus?” Megatron scoffed. “You will die before his proccesor’s  _ humming _ .”

Rodimus waved a dismissive servo. “You’re no fun!”

“And you are too childish to be a captain,” Megatron countered. 

Ratchet shook his helm. “I’m out. Too old for games,” he grumbled, sliding off his stool. 

Drift chuckled and called, “Life is but a game, friend.”

“Yeah, and I’m too damn old for it,” Ratchet grumbled, taking a new seat with Rung, tucked in a corner booth.

With perfect timing, the song changed and Rodimus dragged Drift to the dancefloor, stumbling only a little. Megatron rolled his optics and tossed back a shot. Magnus didn’t understand why he bothered to drink if it didn’t affect him. Granted, it was rare for Magnus to actually enjoy a drink. But he was out with Max, even if there was a distance between them, and he wanted to feel  _ everything _ . Under the table, a servo grazed over his thigh and he forced back a smile. 

Megatron shifted in his seat, glancing between the remaining two mechs. With a low, grating sigh he gathered up his drink and the others’ empty glasses and relocated. Ultra Magnus wasn’t sure whether to be annoyed or grateful at the wink Megatron sent him, so he settled with annoyed. 

“Magnus?”

He looked up from his drink, optics meeting bright reds. “Yes?”

“How’s that spritzer treating you? You’re looking . . . good.” Max cleared his throat. “Relaxed, I mean.” 

Magnus took another sip. He felt like he needed to be properly drunk to keep up with Max. “Swerve must have spiked it,” he concluded aloud. 

“Did I just hear you,  _ the  _ Ultra Magnus, make a joke?” Max stared, glass halfway to his mouth. 

“No.” Magnus flushed. “I am rather concerned.”

“Sure you are.” Max polished off the last of his drink. “I don’t know about you, but I’m ready to head home.”

Home. Ultra Magnus was too confused to understand the other implications in Max’s statement. Home used to be Cybertron, now home was Max; no longer a location, but a spark. How impractical: Magnus cherished it with every fiber of his being. 


	34. Chapter 34

They were barely inside the room before “home” had him pinned to the berth, servos and lips practically consuming him. Magnus kissed back, admittedly less ravaging, stunned by Max’s fervor. When his lips closed on Magnus’ neck, sloppily mouthing the cables there, he took the chance to speak. 

“What’s gotten into you?” he asked. Max nipped a pulsing energon line hard enough to bruise, and Magnus hiked up his knee to try and put some space between them. Just enough to breathe. “Maximus.”

The ex-warden’s optics were near-fritz, darting, mapping every plain of Magnus’ face. “I need you,” he rumbled. 

Magnus would be lying if he said that didn’t almost make his panels unlock. He cupped the side of Max’s face, thumb idly brushing his warm cheek. “And I you.”

“But?” Max’s brow furrowed, concern etching itself into his ever-expressive faceplates. “Was I too rough?” His optics glanced to Magnus’ neck and he leaned in to swipe his tongue over the bruised mesh, nose nuzzling right in the crook of the enforcer’s jaw. 

Not bothering to bite back a quiet moan, Magnus ran his servo down the curve of Max’s spine, touches light and teasing. His other servo reached up to stroke a helm fin, slow and languid motions. “I don’t want to rush this,” he whispered. He focused his attention to the smooth fins, drawing pants and curses from Max who shook with the effort of reserving himself to kisses (no dentae) and plucking hidden sensor nodes. 

Ultra Magnus wasn’t sure when their fans turned on, but he sure as hell noticed the sound of panels opening. For a second, he wondered if he’d opened on accident, but when he glanced down, it was Max’s spike grinding against his thigh. Max, optics mortified, slipped off Magnus and the berth in a flash. 

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, turning his back.

“Please,” Magnus said, “you do not need to hide from me.”

A pause. “I’ve ruined the mood, haven’t I?”

He sat up and swung his legs over the berth. “Not at all. Please, turn around.”

Max only turned half way, servos still over his array. “I’m sorry.” Magnus shushed him and extended a servo. Max was slow to accept it, but when he did, he was tugged closer until he was inches away from Magnus, whose face was only a little higher than his array. He blushed wildly but Magnus only watched him, sincere, patient optics trained on his. 

“May I see your array, Fortress Maximus?” he asked. 

“I. . .” Max shifted on his pedes. “Yes.” He didn’t move his remaining servo. 

Magnus, while kissing the palm of the servo he’d been offered, carefully removed the other from his partner’s half-pressurized spike. That servo also fell victim to an onslaught of kisses. Into each palm, he whispered, “Do you trust me?”

Max’s optics were fixed on Magnus as he slipped from the berth to kneel before him. “Yes. Always.”

“May I touch your spike?”

At the question, the blue and white accented spike twitched. Max gruffed, “Please.”

Magnus smiled up at him and placed a servo flat on his pelvis, thumb looping around the underbelly of his rather impressive spike. Rather impressive equating to larger than Ultra Magnus’. Barely closing his servo around Max, Magnus grazed the flared plating, tugging lightly until it was completely pressurized and could stand on its own. He looked back to Max, who was fixated on him, optics vivid. Holding his gaze, Magnus pressed his lips to the tip. 

“Is that alright?” he asked, still holding tight to Max’s servo. 

“Yes,” Max rasped. “Slag yes, I—”

Magnus ran his glossa along the underbelly of his spike, promptly shutting him up. A servo clamped on the side of his helm and he leaned into the touch as he continued to lick Max’s swollen spike. The moans, short and low, that were seeping from him were absolute gold and Magnus’ spike jut against its housing, aching to be released. Optics still latched to Max’s, Magnus finally took his length into his mouth. Max’s charge crackled on his glossa and they both shivered when Max’s hips twitched reflexively. 

“F-frag,” Max hissed, roughly thumbing Magnus’ finial as he started to move. Sliding along that massive spike, jaw straining from the width of it, glossa massaging the tip as he sucked. 

Ultra Magnus savored it, the taste of Max on his glossa, the desperate twitch of his hips, the way he filled his intake to capacity, the gasps and groans. He bobbed his helm faster, free servo twisting around the base of Max’s spike. Spike slipping from his mouth for just a second, Magnus looked up and rumbled, “Say my name.” He licked another teasing line down Max’s spike. “And if you forget who makes you feel this good, remember that.” In one swift, smooth motion, he latched back onto that gorgeous, massive spike. When Max thrust, he took as much as he could and swallowed around him, the constricting of his throat the tipping point.

“Ultra Magnus!” he cried, hips thrusting wildly and engine roaring with overload. 

Magnus gladly allowed his mouth to fill with transfluid, sucking Max off even as he depressurized. Max pet the side of his helm, vents ragged. Magnus detached from his spike and stood, lips finding Max’s for a sticky, lubricated exchange. Licking his lips, Magnus backed off and sprawled out on the berth, carefully positioning himself so as to not put any extra pressure on his covered array. He crooked a digit in Max’s direction, motioning for him to lay down. 

But Max stood there, optics consuming him, arms crossed and spike out. “You didn’t finish, did you?”

“It does not matter,” Magnus said. Even if it did, he would never force that onto Max. A quick session in the wash racks and he’d be fine. “Lay with me.”

“It does matter.”

“I don’t need reciprocation, Maximus. All I wanted was to take care of you.”

Max’s frown was replaced with a curious grin. He crawled up onto the berth to straddle Magnus’ hips, open valve cover slicking against his fiery array. “Let me take care of  _ you _ ,” he husked, dipping in for a kiss, soft and warm, as he ground down. 

Magnus hummed and allowed his vanity plating to fold away, revealing his fully pressurized spike and dripping valve. Max stared for a moment before regaining his composure and jutting his hip so his quickly pressurizing spike rubbed against Magnus’. They both gasped from the friction, and Magnus’ servos found their hold on Max’s waist. 

“Maximus,” he rumbled, earning a servo on his spike. It was riveting, looking down and seeing Max’s servo wrap successfully around both of their spikes, pinning them together for extra friction. Magnus thrust into his hold, moaning at the slide of his spike against Max’s. 

“How does that feel?” Max asked, servo slowly rubbing their spikes up and down. 

“Good,” Magnus keened. His processor was fuzzy with more than arousal as Max picked up the pace, chasing overload. How lucky was he to have a mech like Fortress Maximus care about his needs, notice him, even see beyond the thick-plated armor and strict commanding he was renowned for? To have someone so damn attentive and patient: it was a blessing when all Magnus was familiar with was hasty greed. This mech, this fucking bot, would be the end of him, and he absolutely loved it. 

Charge bounced between their frames and they both thrust eagerly into Max’s servo until it was bubbling over, the persistent passion that smoldered in their tanks making them see sparks. Max came first, frame rigid as he overloaded, crying Magnus’ name, and he followed shortly after, painting their chassis with a mix of fluids neither was particularly perturbed by. In an odd sort of way, their transfluid-smeared chassis served as an embodiment of their love. No telling where one mech’s ends and the other’s began, but irrefutably shared, mess or not. 


	35. Chapter 35

Ultra Magnus could have sworn he was going in circles at work. Someone broke something, a report needed filed, someone got too drunk and started a fight, a report needed filed. And out of the corner of his optics, that damned box of datapads mocked him from the floor. He was tempted to file away Max’s case as cold and let the datapads collect dust, as Rodimus suggested, but then that shadow lurking behind Max’s optics returned and he couldn’t let it go. At this point, the urgency felt like a weak facade and the threats no better. Magnus admonished himself for thinking that way; all threats should be taken seriously in order to assure the safety of both individuals and the collective. 

Priority work finished for the cycle, Magnus leaned back in his chair. He glared at the box by his desk as if willing it to sprout legs and a mouth so he could properly interrogate it. But that’d get him nowhere either; he was following a track and couldn’t get off, stuck in the same loop, endlessly moving but going nowhere. At least there was Fortress Maximus, the one mech who made him feel more than alive. Nearly a week passed since they moved in together, but Magnus was already so used to coming home to Max in his berth. He never wanted to lose that warm throb in his chest, the one thing he had to keep his chin up. 

Magnus started digging the datapads out of the box, spreading them methodically over his desk, and poured over them for the last three hours of his shift. 

His optics were heavy and he was slumped over the desk, barely aware of time and space when Max came to get him. He stepped into the office with the confidence of a renowned mech and leaned against the wall with just as much suave ease. 

Magnus cleared his optics and straightened, halfheartedly trying to collect the datapads and notes. “Apologies,” he muttered. “I will be ready in a minute.”

Max shrugged and stepped closer, more rigid than before as he glanced over the cluttered desk. “No worries. Only headed to the dispensary.”

“No bar hopping adventures tonight?” He slid the lid back on the box and tucked it beneath his desk. 

“There’s only one bar,” Max deadpanned. 

Magnus feigned a grin and stood, gladly leading the way out of the office and the deck. The further he got away from that damn box the better, but he feared he’d never be far enough. 

In the morning, they took their energon in the dispensary. Magnus was more comfortable with it when he knew it made Maximus happy. But he was distant, gnawing on his lips and tapping his pede. He’d chosen a corner booth and now he stared over Max’s shoulders and treads to survey they other patrons. The usual pre-work crowd, nothing out of place, no one suspicious. But that was the thing, wasn’t it? Suspicious mechs rarely made themselves obvious. 

Max was speaking, saying something about Rewind and Chromedome, but they weren’t there yet. Odd for the early-bird pair. 

“Magnus.”

He struggled to focus on Max’s perplexed face. 

“What are you thinking about?”

He took a sip of his energon. Maybe it was a new refining recipe, but it tasted bitter. “Just work,” he supplied. 

Max frowned and followed his optics to Ironhide and Kup across the dispensary. Talking with their helms bent toward the other, as if they were trying to keep quiet about something. “What does that job have to do with those two?” Max asked. He’d finished his cube but kept his servos wrapped tightly around it. 

“Nothing,” Magnus said. “I should head to work, before Rodimus gets there.”

Max scoffed. “You’ve still got roughly half a day before he shows up.” When Magnus stood and made his way to the door with only a brief goodbye, he stuck by his side, stubborn. “Are you trying to hide the case, is that what this is?” he pressed. 

Yes. No. Magnus had been through this before in his head, late at night when sleep escaped him and left him alone with his thoughts and a sleeping tank. But the words felt wrong on his glossa so he suppressed them and offered a weak, “Sorry.”

For three days it continued on like that, slowly ebbing towards the worst, while Max and Magnus spoke in code: all somber sorrys and brusque thankyous. Until Max had enough, or maybe it was Magnus who snapped. Surely he’d fried  _ something  _ in his neural net, fretting over unanswered questions and drowning in blame with nowhere to go but to him. But he was beyond certain, if such a thing were possible, that he never got rid of the box, let alone its contents which he’d left stacked on his desk. 

All of it, gone. In its place, Fortress Maximus. No collection of recordings, staticy security footage: Here was a mech, metal and energon, cycling gears and beating spark. More than just an image, more than just a heap of metal. And Magnus didn’t know what to feel or how to feel it anymore so he surrendered himself, still brimming with a smoldering frustration, into Max’s open arms. His embrace was warm and tight, borderline constricting, like a snake coiling around its mate in preperation for sex, but this wasn’t about sex and it wasn’t about snakes. 

In his audial, Max whispered, “Is it working?” How could he sound so damn innocent and  _ soft _ ?

Ultra Magnus wasn’t nearly as angry as when he’d walked in, so perhaps it was working. But this was his work, his dedication, the one reliable thing he had to ground himself before Max. Even with Max, he took great honor in his duties, instilled in him by Tyrest, and his responsibility to the crew and to the Tyrest Accord and to the Autobot cause dictated that—

He didn’t realize he’d been ranting until Max kissed him and he stopped. Ratchet explained it once before; the chemicals that are released during intimate contact with another bot were just as good a minor sedative as anything. He blamed the science for his ebbing temper.

Max released him and offered a sad smile in apology. “I know how important your work is to you,” he said, “but you’d never get anywhere obsessing over that threat.”

Indignant, but still holding on to the other’s hips, Magnus rumbled, “And what if something happened? Something that could have been prevented if only I’d been given a little more time?”

“Nothing would’ve happened,” Max said, voice dipping into the hard-headed warden tone. “Besides, you’ve known this whole time who made the threat. Deep down, you know.”

Magnus stared at his partner, spark worrying its case into a thread with its anxious warping. “Bu—”

“You are an amazing officer, by you weren’t getting any results because you suspected everyone except—”

“You.”

Max gave a small smile. His servos loosened and allowed for Magnus to take a reeling step back. Maybe he’d known, just ignored it, but the possibility was always there. He didn’t it to be, but it was, and he disregarded it. How was he so  _ blind _ ? 

“I was still in the brig,” Max started, voice steady but low. As if he didn’t want to spook Magnus. “You don’t know what it’s like, sitting in a cell surrounded by clouts of noise, suffocating on your nightmares, the terror, the screaming.” He paused to steady himself. “I was stuck in my head and I wanted out. Tried to kill myself, didn’t pan out. I thought a threat, something dramatic would get your attention. It was desperate, just. . . desperate.”

Magnus whirled on him with quickly deflating anger. “Who helped you?”

Max muttered something about Blaster and payback for Semanzi. More clearly, “I’m sorry. I really am. I should have said something sooner, I just. . . I still believe I deserved it. I don’t anymore.”

“Come here,” Magnus huffed, officially done with all the talking. He knew enough, now all he wanted to hear was Max’s spark beat. 


	36. Chapter 36

Waking in Fortress Maximus’ arms never felt so good. To feel his warmth, hear his spark, to know, for certain, that they were both alive and together. Perhaps that was the most important part. Together. And when Max stirred, optics blinking online, those glorious reds met his foggy morning blues and with something akin to relief, he smiled. Magnus smiled back as he rolled over, flopping an arm over Max’s middle. Face to face, only inches from each other, there was nothing left to hide. 

“I love you,” Max whispered. 

A servo caressed the side of Magnus’ helm and he nuzzled into the touch. 

“But do you trust me?” Max squinted, searching his partner’s optics. “When I say I’m okay now, do you trust me?”

“This is trust,” Magnus said. “I trust you to take care of yourself. I trust you to call me when you need help, when you’re hurting. I trust that you mean it when you say you love me.”

Max’s engine let out a pleased little rumble. They kissed, not new, but always invigorating. Magnus opened his mouth against the warm, curious slide of a glossa against his lips. There was no fight for dominance, no haste in the way they ravaged each other. A slow, burning, nipping passion, this thing, this  _ love _ , fueled their slow, intense collision. Mumbles and warnings were shared when fans inevitably turned on, adding a stroke of white noise to their blue painting. Servos searched for all the best, most sensitive spots to tease, and there was no need to speak, their energy fields overlapping and flooding each with burning need spawned from mutual understanding, mutual  _ love _ . 

It wasn’t long before they were both panting, straining against their panels, overheating and impatient, but endlessly patient. Max, now straddling Magnus, pampered him with sloppy kisses and, in return, Magnus lavished the other’s treads and helm fins. Ultra Magnus, beneath the bulk that was Max, caressed and kissed and showered praises on his partner. He ignored the throb in his valve, the press of his spike against confining, sticky panels. He didn’t care if the night only led to recharging, curled together; his needs didn’t matter, all he wanted was Max next to him. He desperately longed to run his servos over those immense, broad shoulders, to rest his helm against his chassis and listen to the lull of a healthy, powerful spark. 

Magnus, urged on by the pleasant ache in his spark, took one of Max’s servos in his and smiled. “You are an amazing mech, Maximus,” he purred. 

Max turned to hide the flush of his cheeks. “Coming from you,” he muttered. “It means so much more.” He settled more of his weight onto Magnus, knee between his thighs, parting them as he moved. 

Magnus fought his cooling fans, knowing too well that anything sudden could be triggering. Rather, he lifted Max’s servos to his lips and kissed each knuckle, a light touch, but the mech shivered all the less. 

“Why are you so gentle,” Max moaned, optics lethargic. “It makes me. . . makes me want you.” He pressed closer, pelvis grinding against pelvis, and Magnus was relieved to find that Max was burning up. 

He wrapped both his servos around one of Max’s, guiding it to his chassis, resting it directly above his spark. Looking up with honest blue optics, he husked, “Yours.”

Max took Magnus’ servos and pressed them to his heaving chassis. “Yours,” he echoed. “Always yours.” He leaned down and captured the other’s lips, glossas tracing intakes as servos searched for hidden wires under armor. Magnus panted, losing himself in Max’s gentle proddings, but his servos balled by his sides. 

“Don’t hold back,” Max huffed, kissing a sloppy mess on Magnus’ neck. One servo trailed down his side, rubbing careful circles. “Touch me.” 

The words came out more a growl than anything else, and although it startled Max, it sent shivers down Magnus’ spine. He hushed Max’s blubbering apology with a kiss, nibbling on his bottom lip until he reciprocated. The distinct click of panels opening made them both freeze. Half out of his mind in content and budding pleasure, Magnus glanced between his legs to check that it wasn’t him. 

Max leaned back on his thighs, one servo automatically covering his spike. “I’m sorry, I—”

“Fortress Maximus,” Magnus groaned, consciously spreading his legs further. “Come here. Please.” Max hesitated, so he rubbed a servo over his closed panel. “I want you to have all of me, Max.”

The wondrous mech inched back in, serovs closing on slick red thighs. His thumb teased the joints between Magnus’ hips and pelvis, and he moaned in response. Thick blue digits traced a growing trail of lubricant from his aft to his valve cover. 

“Please, open.”

Magnus obeyed immediately, letting out a content sigh as the transfluid building in his valve spilled out and his spike sprang free. Max ran a digit through the mess, humming when he brought it to his intake. Magnus’ thighs clenched together as he watched Max clean the fluids from his digit. His optics had dimmed, the red now a low-lit comfort and an indicator that Max was enjoying himself, if his twitching spike and lopsided grin weren’t enough to go off of. 

“Max,” Magnus gasped, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from whining. “I need you. In —ah— inside me.”

The other mech’s fans kicked up a notch. “Yes, sir.” 

One digit was fine, something for his valve to grip, but it wasn’t enough. Magnus arched his hips against the second, reveling in the fact that two digits was the size of an above-average mech’s spike. He keened, but Max eased him onto a third, flexing and curling, pressing against the sensitive metal mesh as he massaged his anterior node with his thumb. 

“Does that feel good?” Max asked, optics fixed on Magnus. 

“Y-yes. Please, move.” Magnus’ helm thunked against the berth when Max spread his digits, a fresh gush of transfluid leaking out around them. 

He chuckled. “You’re making a hell of a mess, Magnus.”

“It’s proof of —nng— of how good you make me feel,” Ultra Magnus gasped, circling his hips and trying to take more, frame impatient with Max’s ever careful touches. “I-I am ready for you!”

Max slowly removed his digits, engine revving at the obscene noises and the mess it made. Magnus couldn’t hold back the whine then, the whine of an empty valve, of vulnerability. His processor was fraying and he was so frustratingly close to an overload, both spike and valve screaming for attention, but all he could do was smile and wrap his arms around Max’s neck as he helped him into his lap and propped his back against the wall. 

“Are you ready?” 

Magnus nodded fervently. Max’s surprisingly steady servos held him still as he pushed up, tip of his enormous spike catching on the valve rim. They both gasped when it popped free and slid home. Magnus clung to Max like he would never let go, legs shaking already, valve stretched and filled to its limits, ceiling node smushed and spike scraping Max’s stomach. He’d never felt so infinitely full, stuffed with his unabating passion and endless affection for Max, overwhelmed with the need to give this mech his everything, his body, his spark, his soul, his life. Every emotion he’d struggled to put into words on the tip of his glossa: It was too much to keep inside.

Shamelessly nuzzling his helm into the crook of Max’s neck, he blurted, “I love you!”

Max trembled, hips bucking on their own accord. “Y-you what?” 

Magnus pulled back just enough to press his forehelm to Max’s, desperately rebooting his vocalizer. “I love you, Fortress Maxim —ah!” The heat coiling in his tanks unraveled violently, overload shaking his frame and forcing a cry out of him. His valve clenched desperately as his servos did the same to Max’s face, pulling him in for a static-laced kiss. 

Max shivered under him but remained maddeningly still, optics fiery and questioning. “Did that make you. . .Ultra Magnus, nng—”

“I love you, Max,” Magnus panted, grinding down. “I love you.” He kissed everything he could reach: jaw, helm fins, chassis crest, neck, shoulders. “Love,” he moaned, “everything —ah— you are.” His back arched when Max finally thrust and he practically sobbed, “So perfect, so good to me, gracious and —nng— kind, protective and careful, oh so careful. I love you!”

Max buried his face in Magnus’ neck, and he thought there was something wet running down his shoulder, but the earth shattering thrusts he were taking distracted him. Max’s servos never stopped moving, touching more than Magnus was kissing; comforting, rubbing, kneading. 

Ultra Magnus lost his words soon after, and it was all he could do to hold on, to offer himself wholly to Maximus. Nodes he didn’t even know he had were lit on fire, and the mess between them was so obscene but so gorgeous. Shades of pink swirling, all them. Only them. 

Max’s thrusts intensified, but still he hid his face, making only muffled grunting noises and the occasional engine revv. Magnus kissed his helm fin, gasping and moaning right into his audial. He managed to choke out a weak “Max” and the response was desperate, needy kisses on his jaw and more sporadic, eager thrusts. 

“Magnus!” The whine was all the warning he got before Max seated himself, head of his spike grinding incessantly at his ceiling node, and overloaded. It was extraordinary, hips jerking and engine roaring, but Max’s servos were still so careful, cupping his face and locking optics as he filled him. 

Ultra Magnus’ body succumbed to Max’s intensity, throwing him over into a second overload, valve feebly clenching on the throbbing spike gushing transfluid inside him. Magnus moaned from the aftershocks, petting Max’s side as he continued to overload. He wondered just how much transfluid there was as his plating started to distend and a new sensation, a shifting in his valve, speared him on yet another overload. Liquid heat flooded Magnus, higher than his valve, and as his gestation chamber filled, he collapsed, swathed in bliss and exhaustion. 

Maximus, tanks empty, did the same, nuzzling into Magnus’ chassis, servos curling protectively around him as he stayed seated. “I love you, Ultra Magnus,” he hummed. “I don’t have the words for it like you do, but you are all I have, all I need. I,” he emphasized the word with a tender kiss on the lips. “Love.” On his optics. “You.” On Magnus’ spark. 

It was as if a switch had been flipped, and the armor encasing Magnus’ spark began to shift aside, folding away to reveal the very core of his being. The vibrant, swirling blue cast a faint glow over Max, and he moaned at the sight. Magnus’ spark reached outward, tendrils brushing Max’s chassis, urging him to open, and the sensation made his valve ripple, drawing a low groan from Max. 

Max lifted a servo to tease the edges of his spark, making him arche and gasp desperately. “Do you remember what I said about going home?” he asked, optics lighting hot.

Magnus keened against him, uncertain about the feeling of fluids in his gestation chamber, but oh so pleased that it was all from Fortress Maximus. A mark of claim, but without the aggression. He nodded feebly, working up another charge the longer Max played with his spark. Vaguely, he remembered being confused, because what was home? 

Max pressed a chaste kiss to his forehelm and moved his hips in short bursts, talking over Magnus’ next overload. “Home is with you, always making sure I’m safe, always listening and patient. This room is our home, this place that smells like you and me, our paint chips on the walls, the berth big enough for both of us, our books on the same shelf.” He thrust slower, working off the last bit of charge in Magnus’ system. “You are my home, Ultra Magnus,” he said. 

“I love you,” he rasped. “Take my spark, please! I —ah— want you and  _ only  _ you to have it, Maximus.”

In that moment, there was no world, no universe beyond those four walls. Their humble room was a capsule for all they felt, all they cherished, and they drowned in it, mouths gaping, servos kneading as they merged, feeling a fire they’d never known, one they never wanted to forget. Pure bliss, unadulterated devotion and adoration, all poured into one segment of time until everything was blurred into one being, one connected soul, never broken but now whole; mended and repaired. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's the end, folks! Thank you for reading and giving wonderful feedback!
> 
> ❤ Goodbye for now, my lovelies! ❤


	37. A Little Extra Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little somethin' extra that didn't really fit into the fic. So, ha, bonus chapter! 
> 
> Chromedome and Rewind threw a party, and everyone on the Lost Light (except detainees in the brig) showed up. It was, after all, a damn big deal. Fortress Maximus and Ultra Magnus were not immune to the soft, precious love and resounding joy that the sparked couple exuded.

It seemed like the whole ship turned up. Ultra Magnus had never seen Swerve’s so busy, and he wasn’t sure if he hated it or enjoyed the chaotic sense of community that was the Lost Light. Swerve was certainly enjoying himself, running back and forth behind the bar, fixing drink after drink, visor lit up with excitement. It was, after all, a big day that called for an equally big party. Hell, the last time someone threw a sparkling-shower was ages ago, and certainly not during war time. Magnus felt honored to have been invited, to bare witness to Chromedome and Rewind’s immense joy. Max too, beamed. This was a celebration for their species, and everyone knew it, everyone felt it stirring in their sparks, the hope for a new generation of Cybertronians, what was once considered a futile endeavor. Yet there they were, Chromedome glowing, cradling the small lump of his plating, and Rewind standing on a chair next to him, commanding respect for his sparkmate. The very picture of hope. 

Ultra Magnus sighed, a servo on his thigh drawing him back to the bar. Max grinned, but stared expectantly. A glance around the table confirmed he missed something. Whirl leaned on the table, pincers clacking, and even Rodimus was quiet. He’d been droning on about how he was “obviously a prime candidate for god-sire,” but now he slouched against Drift and waited. 

Clearing his throat, Magnus said, “I’m sorry, what were we discussing?”

“We weren’t saying anything,” Rodimus said with an uncertain grin. “You were talking about hope and stuff, sounded pretty sage-like.”

“Oh.” Magnus had no idea what he’d said aloud. “Apologies.” Next to him, Fortress Maximus chuckled into his glass. 

Whirl waved a dismissive servo. “Anyone else think it’s weird Domehead’s the one carrying?”

Ratchet tossed back a shot of something purple. “Rewind’s frame wouldn’t be able to support a sparkling. Too small.”

“I’d still want to carry if me and Cy had a sparkling,” Tailgate chimed in. Cyclonus promptly choked on his engex. “I mean, how big do you think it’s going to be?”

Whirl chugged the last of his liquor. “Teeny-tiny, like a bug but not a bug. Slip right through your fingers.”

“It will share both parents' genetics,” Ratchet said. “Could be closer to Chromedome’s size.”

Fortress Maximus set his half-empty glass down and leaned in, shoulder brushing Magnus’. “But what does this mean for Cybertron?” he asked, a furtive glance to Magnus. “Or for any of us? How long has it been since the last sparkling was birthed, not a full grown mech harvested from a hot spot or constructed cold?”

Magnus allowed himself to spread his legs enough for his thigh to bump Max’s. There was always something new and amazing about him, and Magnus loathed the day when he stopped being surprised. 

The table was quiet for a minute, but the bustle of the bar made up for it. Somewhere, Trailbreaker was calling for another round of shots and Skids was armwrestling Mainframe and Primus only knew what Brainstorm was doing but he was certainly being loud enough about it. 

“It means that there is hope for restoring our race, peacefully,” Magnus eventually said. 

Drift nodded. “We have a chance to raise a new generation without war and constant turmoil.”

“Someone might finally learn from our mistakes,” Cyclonus finished.

Fortress Maximus was slow to fall asleep that night. He sighed and groaned and rolled around in the berth until Magnus woke up and curled an arm around his waist and pulled him tight. He settled down, but not for long. When his digits started tracing circles on Magnus’ middle, he took the que. 

“What are you thinking about?” he asked, voice gruff from exhaustion. Processor hazy, he was having a hard time focusing on anything specific, but Max’s optics were clear and vibrant. 

Max pressed an open servo against Magnus’ toned middle. “Sparklings,” he whispered. 

“Sparklings.” Magnus repeated the word as if that hadn’t been the main topic for the last few hours. 

“Yeah. What do you think it’d be like. . . to carry?”

He rubbed his optics with the back of his servo, desperately trying to clear some of the exhaustion from them. “Uncomfortable, I imagine. But. . .” He remembered the look of pure satisfaction and utmost joy on Chromedome’s face. “But a source of pride. Hope.”

Max hummed. “I never thought about it, carrying. Or siring. It was always just a liability, a weak spot.” His optics searched his partner’s. 

“How long have you been up?” Magnus asked, stifling a yawn. It wasn’t that he was disinterested, but a conversation like this should be reserved for clear conscious and any time  _ but  _ three in the morning. 

“Don’t know.” Max shrugged. “Sorry if I woke you.”

Magnus sat up a little more, groggily leaning over to steal a kiss. And then there was a warm blue servo cupping his face and a glossa on his neck, and he couldn’t stop himself from purring, “If you asked, I would gladly carry your sparklings, Fortress Maximus.” 

“You are unbelievable,” Max rumbled. “I love you,” he added in a whisper, voice muffled and face hidden in Magnus’ neck, but he was already half-asleep. 


End file.
